If you've listened to Podcast Number 19, you'll know that a Diagnosis Murder-style mystery arose "live" on-air. If not, here's the plot: this Thursday, the new, smaller, more affordable "white" paperback edition of That's Me In The Corner is published. It is exactly the same, except I have added a new bonus chapter about sitcom writing to bring my story up to date, and I have added to the acknowledgments section at the front, where the book is dedicated "to my mentors." In the text, I list all of my mentors in chronological order, including Richard Herring. Because a certain amount of time has passed between the two versions, I have added a few names to the end of the list. Now the mystery:

This is how the acknowledgments page appears in the original, larger, less affordable "neon" edition:


And this is how the acknowledgments page appears in the new, smaller, more affordable "white" paperback edition:

Now, I have checked the document I sent to my publishers, and Richard Herring's name is indeed missed off the list. In adding to the list, I seem to have cut and pasted, and in the process Richard Herring's name got lost. I didn't spot this at the time, nor on the number of occasions I checked the copy before delivering it. What seems to have happened is that I missed his name off, and didn't spot it because of the name Richard Grocock (producer of Banter). This is not a satisfactory excuse, but it's the only one I've got. On paper, it means that Richard Herring used to be a mentor, but in the intervening 15 months has stopped being one. I am embarrassed by this implication, and have instructed my publishers to have all affordable paperback editions recalled from the shops and to pulp them. (This, they tell me, has not taken long.) So, if you have trouble finding my book in the shops, you'll know why. Equally, if you see one that slipped out early before the Great Pulping, snap it up, as it's now extremely valuable - a limited edition.*

* This is all lies.

I notice from this morning's Media Guardian that, after a pathetic start, viewing figures for Euro 2008 picked up. (They started with something like 3 million for the opening match this year, compared to, hmmmmmm, 17.6 million for England's opening match of Euro 2004 - an Arthur C Clarke-style mystery if ever there was one.) I'm still amazed, as an every-two-years, non-club football fan how many committed followers of the game have petulantly not bothered with Euro 2008 at all. (One bloke I asked said, simply, "I"m in mourning.") This is why I am an alien landing on someone else's planet. I've been free to enjoy the sporting prowess and the thrills/spills without any mental block. I watch the sport for a month every two years, and I'm used to England being in with a quarter of a chance. The fact that they didn't make it this time was never going to be a barrier: I like the spectacle and the self-contained drama. And Euro 2008 did not disappoint.

I'm not going to review the final other than to say, the 1-0 scoreline does not go any way towards describing the action. It was a fitting finale to three weeks of football that has fixed me to the sofa throughout.

Some closing statements:

1) I think the laminates that the managers wear around their necks should be bigger.
2) I proved myself to be an impostor football fan during the opening minutes of the final when I observed that Torres must have had his hair cut since the semi-finals, and he didn't need his Alice band to hold it back out of his face.
3) I gather it's unfashionable to like John Motson. However, I rather enjoy his style, as I daringly revealed during the last World Cup. It's eccentric, often howlingly pre-scripted ("the senors have become seniors"?), and he overuses the phrases "by the way" and "I fancy", but I'll be sad not to hear him in two years' time.
4) Praise the Lord for Danny Baker, and all who sail in him. (See: entry below.)
5) I'm already missing that weird Eurodisco tune they played after each goal. What was it?
6) One commentator - that's media commentator, rather than football commentator - mused that it may have been the presence of big English league names such as Torres and Ballack in the foreign teams that eventually drew English audiences around the TV. What an upside down world. (We're only interested in foreign players if they play for us.)
7) I wonder if the fact that all the players had the word RESPECT on their shirtsleeves actually made them more respectful. (Apart from Silva's headbutt, obviously.)
8) How to spot a foreign player who plays for an English side: he uses the phrase "creating chances".
9) How to spot Alan Shearer: he uses the phrase "creating chances."
10) Metzelder, the German defender who almost started the final with an own goal, seems to model himself on DH Lawrence, which is sweet.
11) Forcing the losing team in the final to collect their losers' medals (Motson: "I think those'll be going in a drawer somewhere") by first walking through a tunnel made of Spain seems, to me, to be "adding I to I". (Haven't listened to last night's 606 yet, so apologies if this point has already been made.)
12) That closing montage by the BBC - which I think was supposed to have been the interior monologue of a bee? - pretentious toss. Did they think they'd get away with it because nobody was watching?

See you in two years. Come on, England etc.

Haven't written much about music of late. Well, I have been doing the usual, downloading and buying albums and finding that most of them have one or two good tracks and little else to recommend them. I haven't heard Partie Traumatic, the debut album by Jacksonville's Black Kids, yet (it's out on July 7, and I don't get sent pre-releases as much as I did when I mattered), but I can't get enough of their single I'm Not Going To Teach Your Boyfriend How To Dance With You (especially the Twelves Remix), which I saw being performed by this lumpy looking bunch on Later. It has since been a "hit", I understand, but I take almost no notice of the charts any more. Perhaps the album will disappoint me as much as the albums by Futureheads, Foals, the Ting Tings and MGMT, all of whom have supplied excellent singles but don't seem to have what it takes to go the distance.

The Ting Tings, in particular, are not looking down the barrel of a long and lasting career. (Of that batch, Futureheads stand out; their third album This Is Not The World sounds encouragingly like the Skids to my old ears, and at least it has a congruity and a thumping sound to recommend it, it's just that the single Beginning Of The Twist outclasses much of that which follows it. I'll give it another go, which is more than I can say for the others in my list.)

I have listened to Paul Weller's 22 Dreams many times, and it improves like a wine. Now that's what I call an album: it demands to be listened to as a whole. (And I thought Weller hated David Bowie - this record has Aladdin Sane running right through it, right down to the tumbling piano.) I was initially underwhelmed by The Enemy, despite coming from the Midlands, but their single This Song Is About You, as well as conjuring the unfashionable spirit of The Farm, is hard to ignore.

I wasn't expecting Midnight Boom by The Kills to be so good, but it is. Overlook any tiresome romantic connections of either of the members of the band, this is surprisingly tuneful lo-fi garage pop. I feel quite sad that the Long Blondes album, Couples, has been a resounding miss in the charts, as it's their first good album - the music has caught up with their eyecatching cool. (I understand one of their number, Dorian, is seriously unwell. Our thoughts go out etc.) As salivated over in the NME, Santogold by Santogold is full of life, and it's not just the single L.E.S. Artistes, there's more treasure here that doesn't really fit into any handy box.

You may find this predictable of me, but I also have plenty of houseroom for two old troopers: David Gedge, whose latest Wedding Present album, El Rey, is muscular and heart-tugging and more than tinged with American ambience; and Mark E Smith, whose 156th Fall album Imperial Wax Solvent is fortified by one of his greatest ever tracks, 50 Year Old Man. I'm also sticking by my upbeat Word reviews of Neil Diamond's Home Before Dark, and Death Cab For Cutie's Narrow Stairs (have a listen to opening track Bixby Canyon Bridge). Sigur Ros's fifth, Með suð í eyrum við spilum endalaust (apologies if the correct Icelandic characters haven't come out) won't make any converts, but it does what it does with enormous glacial majesty. I never used to bother about them, but I have recently discovered that you have to lose yourself in their music, preferably on your own, and with it piped directly into your earholes.

Seldom Seen Kid by Elbow is perhaps this year's only unassailable instant modern classic, in my considered opinion, not least the saddest song ever written, Friend Of Ours. Meanwhile, I'd say that neither Portishead nor Spiritualized let us down. Last Shadow Puppets I've enthused about already, and hats in the air for the return of Paul Heaton with Cross-Eyed Rambler, and the clips I've watched on YouTube of Liam Finn, son of Neil, nephew of Tim, whose debut album I'll Be Lightning doesn't quite crystallise the spirits of his nutsoid live performances.

Oh, and Adele, sssshhhhhhhhhh!

This is not news. In fact, all I'm doing, before Euro 2008 is over in an explosion of German/Spanish tickertape and balloons, is confirming what you already know: that Danny Baker should be on BBC radio every night, all year round, doing whatever the hell he wishes. His 606 phone-in show on Five Live - one programme left! Sunday, 10pm - has been a must-download podcast for me. Eloquent, fast-paced, avuncular, self-mythologising, quicksilver, obtuse, it's particularly entertaining for an every-two-years football fan (not something I'd like to admit to Danny in person, as it takes some explaining to a dyed-in -the-wool proper fan), as it spins off at wild tangents, such as how David Bowie is connected to Euro 2008 (German manager called Low, German player called "V2" Schneider, BBC lost sound and vision during the Germany-Turkey semi-final etc.), stories about people missing televised matches due to unusual circumstances, who the managers resemble (Raymond Domenech = Freddie Garrity), and onwards, ever onwards. Danny always has been a radio natural, and certainly football is his metier, but it's not about trainspotting, it's about passion and it's about people, and that's so inclusive. I really must get into his BBC London afternoon show on the iPlayer. I feel bad for taking him for granted, he's truly one of a kind.

I used to work under Danny Kelly at Q, as I'm sure you know, and Baker loomed large over our office without even entering it, so pervasive was his influence on our Danny in terms of language and attitude. We all called the Internet "CB radio for the 90s" because that's what Baker called it - wrongly as it turned out, but he's that persuasive! We also adopted his trick of reducing well known phrase to their initial letters, such as "adding I to I" for "adding insult to injury", a phrase he used on 606 on Wednesday. The "GLW" was also lodged in the vernacular for "good lady wife" and for all I know, still is at Q. I'm sure there's something bad to say about him for BBC-style balance (he called the BBC "the old girl" the other night), but I don't know what it is*. We're running up the black flag, spitting on our hands ... I don't know what that means, but he just said it on BBC London. I'm expecting someone to tell me I should download his podcasts too. Hats in the air - another bit of antique doggerel he popularised in the mid-90s - for The Bakertollah, as our dear leader called him.

*Actually, I know what it is: he's exhausting.

Collings & Herrin Podcast Number 19 is in the can. In it, we unequivocally discount the possibility of making a Vernon Troyer-style sex tape in order to promote our "hardly annoying at all" podcasts. We also wish Gordon Brown's premiership a happy first birthday, offer some useful marketing advice to one of the political parties that beat Labour in the Henley by-election and react in surprised horror to the sexist nature of The Sun's tennis coverage. Also, live on-air, we discover that in the new version of That's Me In The Corner, Richard's name has mysteriously disappeared from the list of "mentors" in the acknowledgments section. This was actually news to me. I had no idea! His is the only name that's in the original version of the book and not in the new version. It's an X-Files-style mystery.

Note the spectral presence of Stewart Lee in our photo. He looms large in all our lives.

It is with great pleasure that I announce my second appearance at the Worthing Artists & Makers Festival, which runs from July 4 (next Friday) to July 20, and takes in all sorts of performance and art across Worthing and Horsham. Last year, I did a talk at Waterstone's, which attracted an even smaller audience than last night's School For Gifted Children, but I really enjoyed it, as it was just like sitting around and having a chat with some nice people. This year I'm at Methvens bookshop in South Street, from 7.30, if you're in the area. I'll be talking about this (which is published, apparently, on July 3, in the more affordable "small paperback" form, with a much more friendly cover and a quote from Simon Pegg on the front):


And it will be a bit like this:

Went to see the Psycho Buildings exhibition at the Hayward Gallery yesterday, which I recommend if you like big-impact sculptural pieces, although be warned that the signature work, Normally, Proceeding and Unrestricted With Without Title, a temporary boating lake on the roof of one of the Hayward terraces, is currently closed for repairs. There's plenty else to expand the mind: Fallen Star by Do Ho Su (a meticulously constructed collision between a huge American-style doll's house and a Korean dwelling), Show Room by Los Carpinteros from Cuba (literally a room exploding, again painstakingly built by suspending all the individual components, breeze block to blue plastic egg tray, from the ceiling on wire to create the effect of an Ikea- furnished room in mid-deconstruction) and Rachel Whiteread's Space (a spooky twilit village made of second-hand doll's houses). Anyway, there's a cinema set up there showing a loop of short films about architecture and art, and the one we caught told the tale of a piece of art I hadn't known about: Robert Smithson's Partially Buried Woodshed at Kent State University. (The film, by Jane Crawford, was called Sheds.) It's a great story.

In brief, Smithson (who died young in a plane crash) was a visiting lecturer at the University in 1970 and was encouraged to produce one of his "earthworks" while there, so he dumped 20 truckloads of earth on top of an existing woodshed in the college grounds until the central lintel collapsed - his way of showing geology consuming human history. The resulting piece of architectural and conceptual "land art" was then supposed to be allowed to be overtaken by the landscape around it, "subject to weathering", in his words, and to become part of history. And boy, did it!

Just over two months after the shed's conception, Kent State was immortalised for all the wrong reasons when National Guardsmen broke up an anti-Vietnam protest by opening fire on unarmed students, killing four of them and shocking the nation, and the world. Someone painted the date on the front of the partially buried shed (MAY 4 KENT 1970) and, unwittingly, it became an emblem for the tragedy that took place there that day, shots that were heard all around the world. Perpetually at the centre of rows about whether it should be preserved, or bulldozed, it was set on fire in 1975, and all dangerous bits taken away. What was left of it stayed there until 1984, when it was cleared for health and safety reasons. The site, though, survived being developed into a car park, and although mature trees surround it (a row of cedars were planted by town planners to make it look prettier for cars hurtling past on the freeway), you can still see the foundations, and people make pilgrimages there.

I can't really publish a photo of it, as they all seem to be owned by the Smithson estate and I don't want to get into trouble. But go and have a look at them using the above link.

Netherlands-Russia quarter final: best game of Euro 2008 so far. Really tremendous: action packed rather than "incident"-packed (although when the ref gave Kolodin his second yellow card and then reversed the decision before sending him off seemed - to me, anyway - pretty unique), and neither side was relentlessly dominant throughout, leaving the final score up in the air, and with plenty of attacking and defending from both ends. When Van Nistelrooy equalised in the 86th minute (and by the way, does any team have a more ungainly, unromantic set of surnames than the Dutch?), it could have gone either way, with both teams missing often spectacular goals throughout. Russia had the edge and the reckless sense of adventure and despite a diet of potatoes kept the energy levels up throughout extra time. Thank God it didn't go to penalties, which reduces 120 minutes of human endeavour to a foot lottery. Arshavin (which is funny if you read it as "Arse-shaving") roundly deserved to be the player who drew a line under his team's victory in the 116th minute. How old is he? About 12? I can't believe he's shavin' yet. Now we're supposedly all getting bored with Ronaldo's petulance (on which a really interesting column by Daniel Taylor here), perhaps this young Russian will be the next international mascot. I'm not informed enough to know if he plays for the Premiership yet or not, as the Guardian racistly* decided not to publish their usual Guide to proceedings this year, with all the info on all the players for part-timers like me, and which I always keep by my side throughout World Cups and Euros. I expect he will be snapped up by Chelsea or Manchester United soon, and the time I next see him play, in two years' time, he'll be an insufferable brat too.

So, my big worry: the pitch at St Jakob-Park in Basel. I know it was returfed because it got waterlogged, but it looks terrible. The usually graceful aerial shots in the TV coverage are rendered laughable with the different shades of green and brown patchworked together. It seems to play OK underfoot, but surely aesthetics are far more important in this media-saturated age! I can't help but think of Hulk Tetris. Do they normally stick a pitch back together in this fashion, mid-championship?

*A joke. I am way too much of a liberal goody two-shoes to want to devalue a useful term like "racism", I promise.

Robin Ince is hosting the next School For Gifted Children night at the Albany near Great Portland Street tube next Wednesday, June 25, and can't be bothered to advertise it. I know I'm on the bill, and so is Ben Goldcare, and Josie Long talking about astronomy, Jo Neary doing some new characters, Waen Shepherd "reading a thing maybe" (Robin's very vague about the bill, but that's half the fun of it), Martin White doing a musical turn "and other such things." So come along. These are brilliant nights, as Tristan, who attended the last one and posted a lengthy review, will testify. I'll be talking about terrorism and The Poseidon Adventure, clearly.

And, while we're plugging, my friend Simon Day (with whom I am still regularly plotting to take over television and/or film) is touring - as himself! - in November. This is the new photograph on the posters. The show is called What A Fool Believes. I don't have a link to the dates yet, but I'll add one here when I do.

We are eighteen. Collings & Herrin Podcast Number 18 is in the usual place. In it, we discuss many things with one of us hungover from a star-studded ITV party last night: Ascot, Labour Transport Minister Tom Harris, strawberries, Ant and Dec, special gel, Ben Elton's handshake and a recession-beating idea for saving money on stamps in Taiwan. Because GarageBand packed up on my laptop (any ideas? it wouldn't open, and I had to force quit as it was "not responding" but this kept happening), we had to use Richard's "better" MacBook, which means a nostalgic trip back to the olden days of Doctor-Who-monster sound quality. Don't you dare complain though. Adam and Joe are intrinsically better than us, but then they do it for the money, and we do it for the ... what do we do it for again?

PS: I forgot to give a mention to Chris Treece on the podcast, who sent a friendly email this week from Vienna, as he works for BBC Sport. So I'm mentioning him here. Apparently he listens to our podcasts on his way from the hotel to the studios. I hope he likes our incisive Euro 2008 coverage this week. We are the new Baddiel and Skinner.

I went to my first ever fashion show last night. (I like to do new things, although I will never jump out of a plane.) It was the University of Northampton Graduate Fashion Show 2008, hence my VIP invite. It's quite easy to be a VIP in Northampton. In fact, I was given two VIP invites, which meant I was able to make a round trip out of it, see my parents and take my Mum to the show. This may have been my best impression of a gay man ever: taking my mother to a fashion show. I loved it.

I care little for fashion, and skim past all the endless photos of stupid dresses and stovepipe hats made of peacocks that clog up my newspaper whenever a new "collection" wows them in Milan or Paris or London, firmly convinced that the whole industry is run on equal measures of hot air, rampant capitalism, bourgeois decadence, fascism and fetishism. Also, hey, I don't know if you've noticed this, but all the models are thin, which is an issue itself in our confused world of Fern Britton and Kiera Knightley. Well, as a Fellow of the University of Northampton I am now invited to a calendar-full of functions and seeing the work of the fashion graduates struck me as intriguing. I might, I concluded, learn something. By the way, Bob Harris and Jo Whiley are also honorary Fellows of the University, but I didn't see them there. (At this year's graduation ceremony, The Now Show's Hugh Dennis will join our motley ranks. So I hope to bump into him in the VIP enclosure at the Royal & Derngate Theatre this time next June.)

It's a big night out for the University (they haven't been a University that many years and it's only the second time the show has been at the Derngate), and something of a corporate glad-hander, but this didn't subtract from the crux of the event: the quality and confidence of the students' work. Having never been to a fashion show before in my life, clearly, I have nothing to compare it to. Also, as it's Northampton, I am deeply biased, but the costumes that were stomped up and down the runway for two hours seemed of a very high standard. They were always arresting, often impractical, occasionally arch, immaculately made and, as Vice Chancellor Anne Tate said in her opening address, "cutting edge." (You have to get over yourself at a fashion show and just enjoy the ride. Crying out, "But nobody would actually wear a leather minidress that makes you look like a beachball in real life!" will mark you out as a philistine and an idiot.) Apparently, two of our students were selected for the final catwalk show at Graduate Fashion Week in London's Earls Court, and one of them had a gold leather jacket picked out and worn by Pixie Geldof at this event, which apparently got in Grazia. However, as Anne proudly pointed out, our students were "not commercial enough" to win any of the top awards that week, which she said was "a good thing."

We must remember that Fashion is a course run by the School of the Arts: it is art. It is design and drawing and creativity and self-expression and sticking things to other things and madness, just like the other courses. Certainly, a fashion student has one eye on the industry and getting a job, but one's chances are presumably improved by sticking things to other things and seeing what happens. (Again, I care not for Pixie Geldof, or Grazia, but I was quickly whipped up into partisan pride once I'd had my first glass of watered-down pink wine and soaked up the pre-show atmosphere among the other VIPs.)

It was all very professional, with professional models (except, I suspect, one of the men, who drew big cheers from the studes in the audience every time he marched on - he must have been one of their own), professional hair and professional lights and PA, although somebody might have thought to wipe all the fingermarks off the perspex lectern! It was as I kind of expected: a seemingly endless parade of funny clothes on rake-thin women and pouty men to a pounding disco soundtrack (M.I.A, lots of Daft Punk, and a fantastic dubstep track which I'd love to have recognised and I think accompanied the work of student Charlotte Quigley). There wasn't a collection that didn't have something to recommend it in terms of invention, shock value or simple craftsmanship. Mum and I were sat not quite in the front row seats which Carrie and Samantha and Charlotte and Miranda would occupy (which I was glad about, as you'd spend the whole time looking up the models' skirts), but we were in a good position with a good view and sat next to a friendly chap from one of the event's sponsors, a local firm that supplied the Ethiopian sheepskin for what I considered to be the most outstanding student's work: Huwaida Ahmed [see: above], whose collection was seemingly based on the look of Afghan freedom fighters, all knitted hats and scarves and robes with boots. Imagine if this man becomes famous - I'll be able to claim myself as a fashion talent-spotter in years to come! (I liked the evening dresses, too, and the big bags, and the elaborately frilled cream dresses, but I question the necessity to add actual Davy lamps to the men's workwear collection.)

A word about the female models: what happens to all the breasts and hips that should ordinarily be on their bodies? Where do they go? Why have none of these models got them? Their bodies just go straight down from their necks to their uncomfortable-looking shoes. I'm not daft, I understand how the industry works, and that bodies that looks like gardening implements are better "hangers" for the sorts of funny clothes designers make, but there is something surreal about the whole thing when seen in close-up. These are not dolls or dummies, which is how they look in the photos, they are actual real women, with imperfections and personalities and breath going in and out of their lungs, and they sometimes trip a little bit, and the more times the same models come out, the more you start to recognise individuals among them. But they have bodies that don't actually look as if organs could function inside them. It's quite amazing! I'm not actually criticising the models, by the way - they walked with incredible poise and rhythm and were actually a wonder to watch. This is clearly the way it is in fashion, and it would be odd for Northampton to use non-professional models who looked like women you actually meet in real life. But seeing the whole thing first hand, from Row G, sitting next to my mum, in my hometown, on a Wednesday night, with a man from a sheepskin company on the other side, was an education.

Thanks to the University for inviting me and broadening my mind. (And to Claire for sending through the photos.)

A polite note to the Royal & Derngate Theatre: you have a fine venue there, which is a credit to Northampton, but if you're going to offer a bar and call it a bar, run a bar. I declined the free wine after my first glass of light-pink rose and was directed to the bar where beer was served. I was happy to pay £2.70 for a bottle of Carlsberg - after all, I could have supped gratis rose all night if I'd wanted to be a real ligger, but I chose not to. Carlsberg is a weak and characterless lager, but it is brewed in Northampton, so you can't blame a Northampton bar for stocking it. (You can almost smell the brewery from the Derngate. They probably walk the crates over.) But if a bar chooses not to bother with draft beer and all those pumps and pipes and barrels, it is not strictly running a bar, it is running a series of fridges. And if it is running a series of fridges, it would be best to make them cold enough to keep the beer cold. A lukewarm Carlsberg is not a great night out. (The Derngate is not alone is providing a poor bar service: the Albert Hall's is similarly fridge-based, and they charge a lot more than £2.70 for a bottle of Becks.)

So, now I'm a ballet critic and a fashion correspondent. Is there any area of journalism I can't turn my hand to?

So, Italy sent France packing last night (amid many facile gags from the media about Domenech's interest in astrology and not seeing it in the stars - ha ha). I had, as previously reported, just been out to a ballet, so I watched the first half and fell asleep during the second (this is the cross those who seek to do something other than watch football have to bear), waking up for the second Italian goal. My question is this, and it arises from my crime of watching football just once every two years:

1) Is a game that is packed with "incident" intrinsically better than a game that just plays out between two sides playing their best and one of them wins? And I mean "incident" that's not necessarily pleasant: Abidal being sent off, France one man down, first goal from a penalty, Domenech accidentally replacing Abidal with someone who he actually didn't want to replace him with and having to substitute his substitute after 16 minutes, Ribery pulling his Achilles tendon and being administered to tenderly by Henry before being stretchered off in obvious agony. It was memorable, but it was two teams seemingly below par, scrapping it out, and not on paper a Good Game.
2) Oh, and why are the games being played simultaneo ... oh yeah.

When I attended my first ever job interview at the NME, then-features editor James Brown, 22, asked me what sort of music I liked. I reeled off the usual for an NME reader in 1988: The Fall, Jesus & Mary Chain, Pixies, Public Enemy ... and George Gershwin. I wasn't trying to be clever. Indeed, it was a risk in terms of "cool", but I was, aged 23, captivated by the great toons of George Gershwin, having entered a really serious Woody Allen phase. I had taped the best of his films from the telly, on Betamax, naturally, and was building up a collection. I watched Manhattan, Stardust Memories and Broadway Danny Rose (I loved his mid-period, black-and-white films, and still do) on a regular basis, and judged potential friends and partners on the basis of their love of Woody. In the great tradition of cultural tangentalism, I had started to explore the music that inspired the filmmaker who inspired me, and invested in a fabulous Gershwin greatest hits album, on vinyl, naturally, that I played as often as I played Surfer Rosa in my bachelor's flat. It was fairly typical of the young me to use cinema as a route into other culture - Apocalypse Now had turned me on to the The Doors, Full Metal Jacket Nancy Sinatra, and so on - but this was unusual music indeed: pre-pop as I knew it, written for stage, screen and concert hall in the 1920s and 30s!

Anyway, I got the job at the NME, despite my honesty, and I've had a soft spot for George and Ira ever since - but especially George, as I'll always prefer Rhapsody In Blue (the opening theme on Manhattan) to something like I've Got Rhythm. Regular readers may remember me going to Porgy & Bess last year, and loving that. Last night, I went to see Strictly Gershwin (oh, what a naff title) at the Royal Albert Hall, a two-hour-20-minute music and dance extravaganza from English National Ballet - or the ENB, as I call them, having been to two of their gigs now. My new-found appreciation of musical theatre is based on one too many disappointing experiences seeing dramatic productions on the London stage: at least with a musical, you get an incredible amount of sheer physical effort and skill for your inflated ticket price.

Though essentially a ballet, this delivered in the same way a West End musical might. In the round, it was a well-calibrated mixture of singing, playing and dancing (I know, the theatre/dance/classical critics of Fleet Street are not quaking in their boots), from huge production numbers involving the whole company, on point, in costume (the American In Paris section fulfilled this brief, with a messenger on a bike riding round the arena, and governesses pushing prams), interspersed with crowd-pleasing ballroom from Lilia and Darren, off of TV's Strictly Come Dancing. Barbara Cook, grande dame of Broadway and Sondheim favourite, was almost literally wheeled on to give full-bodied interpretations of such vocal standards as Someone To Watch Over Me, and two lively tap-dancers stole the show every time they appeared.

I could have done without the seemingly random photo montages on the big screens suspended above the action, such a succession of Hollywood couples for The Man I Love who had little to do with musicals or the Gershwin era (Spencer Tracy and Katharine Hepburn?) and we really didn't need to see footage of Fred and Ginger while the dancers were doing their very best to reproduce the magic of Fred and Ginger beneath, but overall, this was a terrific piece of entertainment from people who can do things that I could never do. And after Strike Up The Band, another stormer, they projected a photo of George Bush onto the screen. Irony? No idea.

As I observed after my first ballet last year, you could crack walnuts between the buttock cheeks of male ballet dancers, and hammer out horseshoes on their thighs, and they really are a sight to behold, live. The ladies, with their xylophone ribcages and toes of steel, are equally astounding to watch. These people are as impressive as top sportsmen and women. Needless to say, the orchestra were phenomenal, especially the pianist (sorry, I don't have the programme to hand) who came on to lead the finale of Rhapsody In Blue and had fingers in fast motion.

One downside, a symptom of the predominantly white-haired demographic of the audience, many of whom will have seen Shall We Dance when it came out in 1937. We were boxed in by senior citizens in our shared box, something which would ordinarily delight me, as I generally have a problem with young people, not old people. Unfortunately, the two seventysomethings sitting directly behind were such ardent fans of Gershwin the gentleman was unable not to announce each songtitle when the band struck up, and then, even more distractingly, he occasionally sang along, under his breath but all too audibly. He didn't actually know the words to, say, Let's Call The Whole Thing Off, but he was moved to grunt along, like a tuneless Bud Flanagan. I was too polite to turn round and tell him to shush, as this was a small box for eight people, and I felt it would be rude, and awkward. So I put up with it, in zen moments imagining myself doing exactly the same thing in 2038, when I'm old enough to wear a navy blazer, coming to see interpretations of Adele at the Albert Hall, and not noticing myself wheezing along to Cold Shoulder, or announcing it to my wife beforehand.

Now, let's stop putting Strictly in front of everything.

So, we say goodbye to the incredible peak that has been occurring on this blog every Thursday since The Apprentice came back. Normal service is resumed. (Hey, I'm as obsessed by ratings as the BBC. No I'm not.)

It gives me great pleasure to see one fully-trained guide dog off into the world and welcome a new puppy into the fold. Today, I received notification, via my "Pupdate" from Guide Dogs for the Blind, that Fliss (above, left), the puppy I previously sponsored, has now graduated and is living and working with a chap called Matt, whose previous dog Millie is retiring. I am now the proud sponsor of Nevis (above, right). I'm no fool. I know that with my monthly donation I am one among probably hundreds, maybe even thousands of other donors who sponsor Nevin, but it's rewarding all the same finding out how it's going. Charities have to find sexy ways of getting you to sign a direct debit form. A bad way is stopping you in the street with a clipboard and asking for your bank details. A good way is using word of mouth, which is why I mention the scheme here. Go to the Guide Dogs website to find out more. It really doesn't cost much. You can choose how much you donate per month - as little as four pounds 33p.

I used to work at Radio 4 with a nice guy called Toby who had a guide dog (and used to go sailing, which also blew my mind), and I learned a lot from him about how it all works. That's why I looked into sponsoring a puppy. I'm not even a dog person! (Cats, however, are not built for this sort of lifestyle.) Seeing a guide dog has always broken my heart a little bit, through sheer admiration really - that a dog will willingly give up his or her normal dog life to assist one of us, in return for job satisfaction, love, and some biscuits. You're not supposed to pet a guide dog if you see one on the job, as he or she is working, and shouldn't be distracted from the task at hand. It's hard not to though. They are princes and princesses among dogs.

Now, back to the football.

Second half of Turkey-Czech Republic: best 45 - or 49 - minutes of football seen thus far in Euro 2008. With twin matches now being played simultaneously for the rest of the group stage (why?), you either record one and watch two a night, or plump for one (as we did last night for Sweden-Spain), or, uniquely, as we did tonight, record both, go out for an early pizza, come back, watch the first half of one (Portugal-Switzerland - lacklustre indeed), and the second half of other, Turkey-Czech, which had maximum fire in its belly, for obvious, qualifying reasons. Good call. Even though Switzerland clawed back their host's pride on ITV4 with two goals while we weren't watching, it was all happening on ITV1, with a terrific comeback by Turkey, who were 2-1 down, and turned it round, thanks to Nihat, who scored twice in the 87th and 89th minute, preventing a penalties-based decider. And then, as if that wasn't exciting enough, the Turkish keeper Volkan was red-carded for stupidly pushing Koller (who'd scored the first Czech goal while we were wading through the first half of Port-Swi). For a moment there, it looked as if the Czechs might equalise, meaning that Turkey would be defending penalites without a goalkeeper! (As it is, Volkan won't be playing in the quarter-final.) This is why Euro 2008 is just as entertaining without England being in it. I passed a big, open, friendly young person's bar near where I live in South Lonodon that's formerly been packed out when England are in the big tournaments. I'd say about two people were actually watching Turkey-Czech Republic on the big screen. Shame, really.

OK, one question:

1) ITV's coverage is the worst of the two on offer. But does anyone else like Ned Boulting? I do. (Sorry if you watch football all the time, and this is old news. I'm new round here, as you know.)

Alright, one other question:

2) What the hell are you to do if you don't have Sky or cable or Freeview? ITV and BBC are fielding a game a night to one of their satellites until the quarter finals now. Tough luck if you don't have access to BBC3 (home of sport!) or ITV4.

1) Why do so few of the Portuguese team sing the national anthem?
2) If the organised but defensive Sweden manage to get through, will Ikea pay tribute by applying all of the team's surnames to items in their catalogue, as a fitting and lasting tribute?

Isaksson: some kind of yellow and blue rug
Stoor: filing cabinet
Mellberg: new meatball dish in the restaurant
Hansson: bookcase, perhaps to rival the Billy
Nilsson: footstool
Elmander: cuddly toy
Larsson: actually, I think there might already be a Larsson
Andersson: metallic cutlery rack
Svensson: cup
Ljungberg: mirror in the shape of his head
Kallstrom: sofa
Ibrahimovic: photo frame
Rosenberg: vase

I am actually taking Euro 2008 very seriously, having watched way over half of the 16 matches so far, and even catching the two-goals-in-60-seconds of Italy-Romania on Friday, just as I arrived at a hotel after a long drive. I was right behind Sweden last night, but was as thrilled as everybody else when Villa scored in the 92nd minute. That's the joy of England not being in it. You may switch allegiance at any time to whoever's playing the best football. And Romania could still go through, if Italy beat France. (I think. My maths is not very good.)

In our seventeenth podcast, we wish Wayne Rooney and Coleen McLoughlin the very best, rail against the Stop and Search policy of the Metropolitan Police because it mainly singles out me, investigate the wording of the Queen's Regulations about moustaches in the RAF (and yes, there are some), and wonder whether either Planet Of The Bulls or Planet Of the Catholics would be more entertaining that the one with Apes. You can see in this picture two things: a visual comparison between Jon Gaunt and a Sontarian* played by Mike off The Young Ones; and the stupid and pointless button and strap that I have found on the inside of my three-quarter length shorts. You'll have to listen to the podcast to understand these references. But please get it off iTunes, as we are yesterday's news and slipped out of the Top 25 (to number 26) today.

*Ha ha, we know it's Sontaran really.

The Apprentice: The Final

One final time with the credits sequence:
Camera pans across London for the foreign buyers, especially Americans, they love this shit: Canary Wharf, the London Eye, the Gherkin, a kindly Beefeater giving directions to a chimney sweep as the Krays cycle past in Pearly King suits. We "meet" the candidates as they walk stiffly across bridges and down corridors wheeling little suitcases behind them, which, we must assume, contain their egos. There's Alex, loving the camera. Does he look 24 to you? Blimey, that's young! There's Lindi, heading for oblivion. There's all 16 of them, coming over the horizon like the astronauts in Armageddon, except in cheap suits and air-hostess scarves and so slick with hair products they could oil the wheels of industry.
Voiceover:
Behold! Sir Alan Sugar! He's worth upwards of a hundred thousand pounds. Look, he's reading the Financial Times in a helicopter. I bet you don't do that, scum.
Sir Alan:
This is the job interview from hell! That means it's like a job interview, but it's worse. As if it came from hell. Which is a place worse than Brentwood. Ha ha ha! I'm not bladdy Florence Nightgale! Don't say you're just like me, because you're not! I'm unique! I rule Brentwood, in Essex! I actually rule it, like a king! Ha ha ha!
Voiceover:
Oh, let's cut to the chase.
Sir Alan: [IN MONTAGE]
Y'fired. Y'fired. I should fire the whole bladdy lot of ya! Y'fired!
ENTIRE COUNTRY SWITCHES OVER FROM SWITZERLAND-TURKEY MATCH, DESPITE THE FACT THAT SEMIH SENTURK HAS JUST EQUALISED RISING HIGH TO NOD NIHAT'S PASS GOALWARDS, DIEGO BENAGLIO DOING NOTHING MORE THAN PARRYING THE BALL INTO THE NET. WHO CARES? IT'S THE APPRENTICE! PARLIAMENT HAS ALREADY RUSHED THROUGH THE INSANE 42-DAY DETENTION RULING SO THAT MPS CAN GET BACK TO THEIR WESTMINSTER FLATS IN TIME FOR THE SHOW. EVEN THE MISERABLE, SOUR-FACED DEMOCRATIC UNIONIST PARTY, THIS TIME LAUGHING UP THEIR SLEEVES. THEY'RE SO HAPPY TO HAVE BECOME THE MOST IMPORTANT PARTY IN THE COMMONS AND NOT TO HAVE DONE ANY SWEETENER DEALS WITH THE GOVERNMENT, THEY DON'T EVEN CARE WHO WINS! LEE? CLUR? ALEX? THE OTHER ONE?

Scene 1. Int. The House. 30 minutes before the candidates need to be somewhere, despite all that ironing they have to do
ALEX PROVIDES FIRST GOOD OMEN FOR HIMSELF BY GETTING TO THE PHONE FIRST. HIS HAIR IS ALL OVER THE PLACE, STICKING UP, STICKING OUT. AT LEAST HE WON'T HAVE TO WASTE ANY TIME ON IT DURING THE NEXT 30 MINUTES.
VOICE OF FRANCES, DUBBED ON LATER [ON PHONE]:
The cars are picking you up in 30 minutes! Oh, and by the way, it's the final!
ALEX CATWALKS OFF

Scene 2. Ext. The House. 30 minutes later - no, really, 30 minutes, each of those minutes lasting 60 seconds, later, that's 30 minutes after the phone was put down, 30 minutes, half an hour between then and now
CLUR, ALEX, LEE McQUEEN AND THE OTHER ONE - OH, ALRIGHT HELENE - ENTER THE PEOPLE CARRIERS FOR THE LAST TIME. FOR THREE OF THEM, THEY WILL NEVER TRAVEL IN A PEOPLE CARRIER OR COME TO GLAMOROUS LONDON EVER AGAIN. ONE OF THEM WILL NEVER AGAIN NOT TRAVEL IN A PEOPLE CARRIER OR COME TO GLAMOROUS LONDON AGAIN, BASED, AS HE OR SHE WILL BE, IN ESSEX, NOT IN LONDON
VOICEOVER:
The candidates are meeting Sir Alan at the most famous empty warehouse space in London. Can you imagine how famous it must be? Tourists flock to see it, even though it's empty.

Scene 3. Int. London's Most Famous Empty Brick Building, London. Day
THE CANDIDATES ARE LINED UP ON THE LEFT, NICK AND MARGARET ON THE RIGHT, WITH NICK AND MARGARET'S AGENTS BEHIND THEM, TAKING CONSTANT CALLS FROM I'M A CELEBRITY AND DANCING ON ICE. AFTER ABOUT 10 MINUTES, SIR ALAN EMERGES, LIKE DARTH VADER, FROM A DOOR SOME 50 YARDS AWAY. HE TAKES HIS TIME. HE'S NOT BLADDY MOTHER THERESA
SIR ALAN [CLEARLY HUNGOVER AFTER HIS INAPPROPRIATE SLAP-UP DINNER OF STEAK WITH TRUFFLES ON IT LAST NIGHT WITH THE CANDIDATES, AT WHICH, ALTHOUGH IT'S A BIT OF A BLADDY BLUR, HE SLEPT WITH CLUR AND TOLD LEE HE WAS GOING TO WIN, OR WAS IT THE OTHER WAY ROUND?]:
Good morning.
CANDIDATES:
Morning, Sir Alan.
CLUR BLUSHES. SO DOES LEE. WE MUST NEVER SPEAK OF LAST NIGHT AGAIN
SIR ALAN:
This is an empty space, a bit like Michael Sophocles's head. But you're gonna fill it with your business acumen. I'm gonna split you into two teams: Lee and Clur [HE BLUSHES - WHAT HAPPENED LAST NIGHT?], and Alex and the Other One, oh alright, Helene. You're all team leaders, which is in no way a recipe for disaster, and you're gonna need some help, so I've done something that happens every series and yet you're gonna look as surprised as those Sex & the City skirts every time Samantha arrives from LA in the film.
LIKE A BAD MEMORY, IN TROOP SIX OF THE PRODUCERS' FAVOURITE FIRED CANDIDATES: SIMON, MICHAEL, JENNYFER, JENNYFER, RAEF AND MATT, ALL OF WHOM ACCEPT THAT THIS BRIEF REPRIEVE MERELY RUBS SALT IN THE WOUND OF THEIR FAILURE TO WIN BUT AT LEAST GETS THEM ON TELLY ONE LAST TIME. ACTUALLY, MATT STILL THINKS HE CAN WIN IT
MATT LUCAS: [SINCERELY AND EARNESTLY]
The reason I'm glad to be invited back is that I was fired at the wrong time, which is any time before now really, as I am great, and I am brilliant. Now I get my chance to outperform the so-called final four and be crowned as Sir Alan's Apprentice!
SIR ALAN:
Right, first pick your teams.
ONE TEAM, CAN'T REMEMBER WHICH, PICKS THREE OF THE FIRED PEOPLE, THE OTHER TEAM PICKS TWO, AND SINCE NOBODY WANTS ICE-FACED JENNIFER, SHE GETS PUT ON THE OTHER TEAM. I BET SHE ALWAYS GOT PICKED LAST FOR HOCKEY AT TRINITY TOO, UNLESS IT WAS ICE HOCKEY, IN WHICH CASE THEY COULD SKATE ON HER FACE
SIR ALAN:
Right, you're gonna invent a fragrance, a men's fragrance, for men, which is a perfume for men, which is a smell in a bottle, for men, not ladies, I know it's crazy, and you're gonna launch it right here, in this empty room, in front of the most famous perfume people in the whole wide world, which sadly includes Givenchy, which I can't bladdy pronounce because it's a poof's word. Now go off and do this thing. And don't get any funny ideas that you might win because I slept with you last night, or told you you was gonna win, because what happens over steak and truffles, stays over steak and truffles. Now fack off! And may the best Lee win. I mean: man.

Scene 4. Int. Some office. Day
CLUR AND LEE McQUEEN'S TEAM - WE'LL CALL THEM CLUREEN - ARE BRAINSTORMING A NAME, A SMALL AND A BOTTLE. JENNYFER, SIMON AND MICHAEL RESPECTFULLY CONTRIBUTE NOTHING
LEE McQUEEN:
Let's call it "Psssst!", which is, like, right, like the sound a bottle of perfume makes when you press it, but also the sound of a man trying to attract your attention if, like, you're a woman, right, which is what a perfume, like, does, right? It also sounds like "Pisssed!", which is what you'd have to be to get off with me.
IN ANOTHER ROOM IN THE SAME OFFICE, ALEX AND HELENE'S TEAM - WE'LL CALL THEM HELEX - ARE BRAINSTORMING A NAME, A SMELL AND A BOTTLE. JENNYFER AND RAEF RESPECTFULLY CONTRIBUTE NOTHING. MATT LUCAS, MEANWHILE, WAITS FOR HIS MOMENT
ALEX:
What about ... not thinking of a name?
SILENCE
HELENE:
Great! Let's action that, but action it with balls. Why don't we go off in a car to not think of a name, while you go off in another car to another place and we'll not think of a name in two different places?
ALEX'S MOUTH SHIFTS UNCOMFORTABLY SOMEWHERE BETWEEN HIS EAR AND HIS CHEEK

INSET: LEE McQUEEN
LEE McQUEEN: [TO CAMERA]
I want this because I want it. No, I want it because I want it. That's all there is to it. Nobody else wants it, or at least they might fink they want it, but not like I want it. I want it a lot. I want it more than that, even.

Scene 5. Int. People Carrier. Day
HELENE IS ON THE PHONE TO ALEX. THEY ARE READING PROSPECTIVE NAMES OUT TO EACH OTHER
HELENE:
Balls.
ALEX:
Aroma.
HELENE:
Balls.
ALEX:
Aroma.
HELENE:
We hate Aroma. What about Balls?
ALEX:
We like Aroma.
HELENE:
We like Balls.
HELENE LOOKS AROUND AT JENNYFER AND RAEF FOR MORAL SUPPORT, WHO BOTH RESPECTFULLY KEEP RIGHT OUT OF IT
ALEX:
Aroma.
ALEX LOOKS ROUND AT MATT LUCAS FOR MORAL SUPPORT, WHO KEEPS HIS POWDER DRY, BIDING HIS TIME, WAITING FOR THE CHANCE TO POUNCE
HELENE:
Balls.
ALEX:
Aroma.
HELENE:
Alright: Testicles.
ALEX:
We hate that. What about Connect?
HELENE:
We hate that. What about Bollocks?
ALEX:
We hate that. Gay Juice?
HELENE:
Big Hetero Gonads?
ALEX:
I'll tell you ours in reverse order: Connect, Connection, Connected.
HELENE:
They're all shit. We hate them all. We hate all three of your names.
ALEX:
Stop panicking.
HELENE:
I'm not panicking. You're panicking.
ALEX:
I'm not panicking.
HELENE:
But they're all shit and I'm late for a meeting and I've got to go.
ALEX:
You're panicking, and it's making me panicky.
HELENE:
I've got to go.
ALEX:
Stop panicking.
HELENE:
I'm really glad they put me with you. I can't stand Clur or Lee, so that leaves you.
ALEX:
Why are you panicking? Just because we haven't got a name or a smell or a bottle. Why panic? Don't panic! Don't panic!
HELENE:
What's wrong with Balls? Men like balls. I work with men and they like my balls.
ALEX:
Do they like you panicking?
HELENE:
I can't hear you, you're breaking up.
ALEX:
That's because my mouth is round the back of my head and it's speaking through a wall of gel.

INSET: CLUR
CLUR: [TO CAMERA, TEARS ROLLING DOWN HER CHEEKS]
I've been on a journeeeey. I wanted it when I started my journeeeey and now I want it even more, because of the journeeeeey I've been on. I don't think the other candidates have thuuurt. What's their journeeey been? I mean, realleee?

Scene 6. Int. Working class caff. Day
CLUR AND MICHAEL ARE "MARKET RESEARCHING" WHAT MEN PLUMBERS LIKE TO SMELL
MICHAEL:
So do you like to smell like a filthy, sweaty plumber, or a gay woman?
PLUMBER:
A filthy, sweaty plumber.
MICHEAL MAKES A NOTE OF THIS ON HIS CLIPBOARD
CLUR:
Would anybody here like to be my boyfriend?
PLUMBER:
Sorry, luv, I've got another job to go to, and then I've got to pick the kiddy up from school. I could get back on, say, Friday?

Scene 7. Int. The same design company they always use. Day
ALEX AND MATT LUCAS ARE EXPLAINING WHAT THEY WANT TO THE PATIENT PRODUCT DESIGNERS
ALEX:
We don't know what we want.
DESIGNER:
I see.
THE DESIGNERS LOOK BLANKLY AT EACH OTHER AND AT ALEX. ONE OF THEM DRAWS A COCK AND BALLS ON HIS PAD AND WRITES "ALEX" ABOVE IT, THEN SHIELDS IT FROM ALEX'S VIEW WITH HIS ARM. TIME PASSES. NOBODY SAYS ANYTHING. IT IS AN IMPASSE. A MEXICAN STAND-OFF. THE GOOD, THE BAD AND THE UGLY. NO NAME. NO BOTTLE. NO DESIGN. NO APPRENTICE. MATT LUCAS SPOTS HIS CHANCE AND TAKES IT
MATT LUCAS:
What about if the bottle was like a stress ball?
MORE BLANK LOOKS. THIS IS SUCH AN OUTLANDISH, HALLUCINOGENIC SUGGESTIONS, EVEN THREE MEN WHO DID AN ART DEGREE CANNOT GET THEIR HEADS AROUND IT
MATT LUCAS:
Alright, too radical for you. What about if the perfume was like a Chinese burn? No? What about if the box the bottle comes in was like an exercise bike? What if the shop that sold the perfume was like Gerry Cottle? No?
DESIGNER:
What if the bottle came in two bits?
MATT LUCAS:
I've got it! What if the bottle came in two bits?
ALEX'S MOUTH DETACHES ITSELF FROM THE REST OF HIS 24-YEAR-OLD FACE AND HOVERS NEXT TO IT - THE EUREKA MOMENT

INSET: ALEX
ALEX: [TO CAMERA]
I want this. I've wanted it ever since I was 23, and I'm 24 now. I know I'm not as long in the tooth as the others, but that's because I am 24 and they're all - what? - 32 or something. Some of them are 33, I'm pretty sure. And they're washed up. They're menopausal and that's not helpful in a work environment is it? A load of dried up old women who've stopped having periods and men with erectile dysfunction and bad hearing and everything. How can they want it as much as me? They can't.

Scene 8. Int. A bar. Day
LEE McQUEEN IS DIRECTING THE ADVERT FOR CLUREEN'S PERFUME, WHICH HAS A NAME AND A SMELL AND A BOTTLE, AND IS CALLED "MISERY". AN UNEXPRESSIVE MALE MODEL WHO LOOKS DISCONCERTINGLY LIKE ALEX IS DRESSED AS JAMES BOND AND AN UNEXPRESSIVE FEMALE MODEL IS DRESSED AS A HIGH CLASS CALL GIRL. AS THE CAMERAS ROLL, LEE FINDS HIS INNER PORN DIRECTOR
LEE McQUEEN:
Imagine you really like him. Imagine you really, really like him. Like, you are lookin' at him, right, and you are finking: I really like you, and I really like your fragrance. That's it! Imagine you are his girlfriend. That's it! You are his girlfriend and he is, like, your boyfriend and everyfing, and if you play your cards right, as this is a casino, right, you could, like, go out with him for probably longer than a week, and if you really get on together, which you will if he keeps wearing that perfume, maybe you could tell your friends about it, and introduce him to to your mum and dad. That's it! Yeah!

INSET: HELENE
HELENE [TO CAMERA]:
I want this. I really want it. I need it. In fact, I must have it. And I will have it. It will be mine. I'm ballsy. I've got bloody big ballsy balls, and that must count for something? Surely? Come on! I wish these contact lenses didn't make me look like I'm on the verge of tears the whole time, as that in many ways belies my ballsy exterior.

Scene 9. Int. Perfume factory, the English countryside, outside of London, where everything else happens, except Sir Alan's business empire. Day
HELENE IS INVENTING THE PERFUME TO GO WITH THE BOTTLE THAN COMES IN TWO PIECES AND IS NOW CALLED "DUEL" TO SUGGEST THE EARLY STEVEN SPIELBERG FILM ABOUT A MAN, PLAYED BY DENNIS WEAVER, WHO IS TERRORISED BY A BIG LORRY
HELENE: [SNIFFING LITTLE STICKS THAT LOOK TO MUCH LIKE THE ONES YOU GET IN PREGNANCY TEST KITS]
Mmmm, this is lovely, what is it?
MAN IN WHITE COAT:
It's a stick from a pregnancy test kit, sorry about that, my mistake. You're actually smelling your own perfume, which is [SNIFFS THE AIR] yes, I think it's Balles by Lentheric.
HELENE:
Right, well I mustn't let that influence my decision when I pick out our brand new perfume called Duel.
MAN IN WHITE COAT:
Try this, it's chicken dhansak, with an undernote of Cadbury's Caramel and a hint of the Former Yugoslavia.
HELENE:
I love it.
MAN IN WHITE COAT:
Right, let's make you up a few vats of that, then.
HELENE:
You don't think it's too similar to my own scent, Balles by Lentheric? Only I have to pitch it to the most famous perfume men and women in the world.
MAN IN WHITE COAT:
Of course not. Balles by Lentheric is prawn dhansak.
HELENE:
Sold.
MAN IN WHITE COAT:
You're all idiots. You think you can march in here and invent a perfume just by smelling some things? I've been doing this job for 30 years. I trained at the Sorbonne. I can tell the difference between a Labrador and a wet Labrador at 500 yards. I have my nose insured for upwards of a thousands pounds.
HELENE
Victory will be mine. As long as that twat Alex doesn't panic.

Scene 10. Int. London's Most Prestigious Empty Building. Day
ALEX IS PRACTISING HIS PRESENTATION BEHIND A LITTLE LECTERN. THEY HAVE DRESSED THE ROOM BY PUTTING UP SOME BLACK SHEETS WITH THOSE LITTLE TWINKLY LIGHTS IN. THAT'S IT. "DUEL" WILL SPEAK FOR ITSELF.
MATT LUCAS:
If you can't do it, I don't mind stepping in for you. Just say the word. I've even written a few words about my two-bottles idea and how I came up with it. I'm primed.
ALEX:
I'll be fine. I have the arrogance of a 24-year-old. What are you? 29? Perhaps you'd like to sit down and put a blanket over your legs, Granddad. [CLEARS THROAT] "Alex is 24, he's on his way to the top, he lives in Bolton, he won the Apprentice in 2008, and he wants a smell that matches his 24-year-old sense of style and entitlement. He wants ... Duel. It comes in two bottles."
MATT LUCAS:
God that is so boring. It's boring! I could do better than that! Why don't you let me try? Let me! I know I was fired for trying to sell the environment to card manufacturers and I'm just a bank manager from Bath, but I want this.
MEANWHILE, IN THE OTHER HALF OF THE EMPTY SPACE, CLUREEN ARE DRESSING THEIR ROOM SUBTLY WITH GIANT DICE AND PLAYING CARDS, TO HELP GET ACROSS THE JAMES BOND THEME OF "MISERY".

Scene 11. Int. A room in a building. Day
LEE McQUEEN IS REHEARSING HIS PRESENTATION IN FRONT OF SIMON, JENNYFER AND MICHAEL, WHO RESPECTFULLY OFFER NO FEEDBACK OR HELP
LEE McQUEEN:
"Ryan is 26, no 25, no 27, he's an urban guy who lives in the countryside, no he doesn't, shit, hang on, he works for a top-end agency, no he doesn't, he comes from Leeds, no Leicester, he's called John, and he lives in Luton, but he was born in Leytonstone, but he's called Carl, and he's called Ryan, and he lives down the road, and he wants to smell like a woman, no a man, he wants to smell like James Dean, no James Bond, shit, I can't do this, Clur, I can't do it, I'm fucked, we're fucked, we're all fucked, no we're not, yes we are, oh my God, Ryan is a dustman and he wears a dustman's hat, no he doesn't, shit, no, he is called Lee, no he isn't, I'm called Lee, and I want to smell like victory, no I don't, shit, fuck, shit." How was that?
CLUR:
Pretty much word-perfurrrrct.
LEE McQUEEN:
I'm going out to the car park. That's what I'm parkin' about.
CLUR [THINKS]:
Oh my Guurrrrrd. We're going to lose. That twat is going to lose it for us, and I'm not going to be the Apprentice, and I want it. I really