Would we let a week go by without a podcast? We would not. So here it is, our promised Review Of 2008, otherwise known as Collings & Herrin Podcast 44, which we've been saving up (and thanks, once again, to Mark, who is making these festive ones go live on the allotted day). As you listen to it, Richard will presumably be in a hammock somewhere eating a flounder's head, and I will be doing nothing, I hope, except preparing my extensive notes for my first close-up of 2009, filling in for Mark Kermode on 5 Live (Friday January 2, 15:00). As you can see by the pic, Richard really liked the present I belatedly gave him during the pre-recording of the podcast. Ha ha. In the last podcast of the year, we discuss our most-missed dead people of the year, plus give a detailed analysis of such seismic events as the Beijing Olympics, the election of Barack Obama and when Iain Morris caught the pomegranate juice thrown by Kevin Bishop. We'll be back in 2009, when Andrew resolves to stop being the controversial one and Richard resolves to start being the controversial one.

OK. I'm going to attempt a personal stock-take of 2008. I may miss things out. I may put in things that actually came out in 2007 (that will certainly be the case with books, as ever, because I rarely read books in hardback). I may change my mind in a week's time. But I do think it's good for the soul to try and pat some shape out of a departing year. On reflection, although historic in a geo-political sense and full of financial portent, it's not been a vintage one for stuff. I have been about as underwhelmed by the long-playing record as at any other stage in my music-loving life - but there have been some tremendous songs, so all is not lost. Most of the films I saw - and I saw a lot, thanks to the holiday plans of Mark Kermode - were just OK; then again, those films that stood out did so by a mile. Pretty much every book I read and loved in 2008 was originally published in the 70s or 80s (I think you can guess why), apart from a couple of new ones. I watched a lot of television but not nearly enough of it was essential viewing, and it's surprising how much of the better stuff was reality-based.

As a scriptwriter, I had no new work on telly in 2008, due to the postponement of the third series of Not Going Out to the end of January 2009 (check listings for details), and the continuing on-ice status of ITV's Mumbai Calling - each of which I wrote, or co-wrote, one episode for. I look forward to seeing them on the small screen at some juncture. Simon Day and I continued to squash our noses up against the glass, but didn't get anything away; we will, I have no doubt, plan another big push for the new year.

As a broadcaster, I continue to rely on Mark Kermode for my regular forays on 5 Live and BBC News, but this is not to be sniffed at. Pretty much everybody still thinks I have a show on 6 Music, which I left in March 2007, except those who actually listen to 6 Music. That's rather galling. I had expected some "deps" this year but they never came; perhaps this is for the best. I certainly enjoyed being asked onto Michael Ball's Sunday Brunch on Radio 2 - long may that pleasant gig continue. Yes, I did some talking-head shows, still unable to say no - the next one to be broadcast will be The Most Annoying People Of 2008 (which I think is on New Year's Eve on BBC3), and yes, I realise by appearing on it, I risk becoming one of those very people. But one has to work, and one has to keep one's hand in. (Authoring my own two-minute piece for The One Show was a step in the right direction, but I am experienced enough to know that this could turn out to be another cul-de-sac.)

It's clear that the most stimulating work I did in 2008 was unpaid: the Collings & Herrin Podcast, which has led to live appearances, one podclash and a number of meetings, but continues to justify itself without leading to anything. Richard and I have cemented our professional relationship and produced 47 hours of unscripted material since January. Of this I am very proud, and by the warm reactions from those who listen, my cockles are warmed.

I'm not doing numbered lists this year. Not enough good stuff to merit that.


Music
Terrible year for albums. Yes, there were some good ones: Elbow's The Seldom Seen Kid by far the finest and I'm hardly going out on a limb in saying so, followed swiftly by Adele's mighty 19; also Fleet Foxes, Nick Cave, Last Shadow Puppets, RZA, Santogold, the Kills and the Wedding Present, at which we start to hit that glut of albums that were OK but not exactly classics, despite the promise of a few decent tracks, such as MGMT, Black Kids, Neon Neon, Ladyhawke, TV On The Radio, Ladytron, even Sigur Ros, which gave me such an initial lift and then fell almost immediately into that depressingly common latter bracket. The Glasvegas album has to be one of the worst of the year, or at least the most crushingly disappointing and bafflingly overhyped. Meanwhile, The Ting Tings' That's Not My Name endures as my song of the year (and a number one in the actual charts to boot), followed by Black Kids' I'm Not Gonna Teach Your Boyfriend How To Dance With You, MGMT's Kids, Ladyhawke's From Dusk Till Dawn, Portishead's Machine Gun, the Verve's Love Is Noise and TV On The Radio's Crying. Enough to form a decent '08 playlist on my iPod, but patchy in the extreme. I accept it may be my age.


Books
It should come as no surprise that my favourite book of the year was Letters Between Six Sisters edited by Charlotte Mosley, as it is the book that launched an obsession; it came out in hardback in 2007, but paperback in 2008, so I'm claiming it. Since devouring it, I have bought and read so many other books about the Mitford Sisters, I am in a position to start my own library. But all roads lead back to the letters, wherein I fell in love with Nancy, Pamela, Unity, Diana, Jessica and Debo and grew up with them through the 20th century. I give honorable mention to Unity Mitford: A Quest by David Pryce-Jones, Rules Of The Game by Nicholas Mosley, A Life Of Contrasts by Diana Mosley, Hons & Rebels by Jessica Mitford, Decca: The Letters edited by Peter T Sussman and Noblesse Oblige edited by Nancy Mitford. Off the Mitford track, I enjoyed Born Yesterday by Gordon Burn, even though it was more of an exercise than a book, and Bits Of Me Are Falling Apart by William Leith. Flat Earth News by Nick Davies was a landmark, and just as entertaining as its revelations were the reviews in the press and their attempts to praise the book without admitting to any wrongdoing. It's a pity Susan Faludi's The Terror Dream tailed off, as I found much to nourish my soul in the first half. I am currently unable to put down Human Smoke by Nicholson Baker - an actual hardback that came out in 2008. It's been a good year for reading.


Films
Nothing this year touched Hunger, the one about Bobby Sands directed by Steve McQueen: poetic, hard-hitting, dramatic, politically charged without being preachy and a film never to leave you. I saw it twice. There Will Be Blood came in a close second, proof that an epic can be both insane and moving, big and intimate. I also fell in love with Times And Winds, a Turkish film about childhood, religion and rural subsistence living on the side of a mountain, written and directed by Reha Erdem. It's small, personal, subtle, artistic films like this that make The Dark Knight seems all the more swollen and over-praised. Having studiously avoided Mamma Mia! and anything about torture with a number in the title, I found myself seeing a broad sweep of stuff while being Mark Kermode, from terrible romantic comedies and leaden action movies to ho-hum documentaries, and lots of "big films" along the way. Odd gems made the going that little bit easier, like In Bruges, a fabulous black comedy that changed my opinion of Colin Farrell and reinforced my opinion of Brendan Gleeson. Of the "big films" I was swept up by WALL-E and Iron Man, enjoyed Mike Leigh's Happy-Go-Lucky and found that Man On Wire restored my faith in the feature length documentary. I'm not a film critic, I didn't see everything I wanted to see, so I don't wish to make too many sweeping generalisations, but American film looked in good shape at the beginning of the year, but without auteurs, you got nothing. And I have Gomorrah to watch on DVD, which I have a good feeling about and may make a late run for my final top ten.


Telly
In previous years, it's been Channel 4 drama that's taken the prize, but this year, without a doubt, it was Frank Cottrell Boyce's God On Trial that showed us what TV can do, and it was on the BBC. A one-off play, of the old school, it took place in one set (aside from an exterior framing device) and gave us new insight into a subject that ought by now to have lost its dramatic edge, but hasn't: the Holocaust. That it was written by an enquiring Catholic, and not a Jew, was worthy of note, and perhaps gave its central theological inquiry a broader aspect. Either way, it was great writing, coupled with great acting (oh, to see the likes of Eddie Marsan, Jack Shepherd, Lorcan Cranitch, Anthony Sher, Rupert Graves and Stephen Dillane in one place), and, lest we overlook it, great directing from Andy DeEmmony, choreographing a large cast around a small stage. Apparently it drew an audience of 700,000 to BBC2 on the night, but was up against Lost In Austen and Who Do You Think You Are? - if this isn't what the BBC should be doing with our licence fee, I don't know what is. But let's not get too high-minded about it, I was also hooked this year on Strictly Come Dancing, The Apprentice, Dragons' Den and Celebrity Masterchef, all BBC shows, two of them - gasp! - "celebrity"-based. (Actually, Strictly tried my patience in the end, with its pathetic own goal in the penultimate week, a voting farrago brought on by honesty-paranoia and the fact that the public had been punished for voting for the contestant - Sergeant - they wanted to win. It's as if nobody behind the scenes had actually sat down and worked out what all the potential outcomes were and hoped for the best. BBC = own worst enemy, as usual.) Full marks to Outnumbered, which I picked up on belatedly and instantly became my comedy of the year, putting the tireless TV Burp into second place, but at least that's one non-BBC show in the roll of honour. (By the way, The Wire finished in style, both self-indulgent and wildly surprising, but was hampered by a reduced running length and, on reflection, Season Five was no Season Four. It remains, on points, the finest television series ever made, for the record. True blood.)


Radio
I don't listen to much radio, is the truth. Unlikely as it may once have seemed, Smooth has become my default, in car and kitchen. It is an unpretentious station with a clear remit that it sticks to. If you don't feel like listening to "smooth" music, you turn over. Too much music radio tries to be all things to all listeners, and the result is mulch. The best radio show of the year - which I listened to as podcasts in my own time - was Danny Baker's Euro 6-0-6 on 5 Live. He is a master and this joyous run showed why, again. When he and Zoe Ball sat briefly in for the disgraced Jonathan Ross on Radio 2, he wiped the floor with his old mate. Radcliffe and Maconie continue to coalesce brilliantly into one man on R2 - let us hope they are immune to the forthcoming game of managerial musical chairs. The lazy act of "getting somebody in off the telly" can no longer be radio's mantra. Listen to those who are really good at it, and ask yourself if they came "off the telly"?


The Internet
Because of the way it wove into the fabric of our podcasts, Wikipedia continues to reign as website of the year, with the wonders of YouTube a resource that can't be matched, especially as a journalist - but which could be decimated if big companies like Warner start to take their ball home. And of course, it gives a platform to people like Nathan Jay and his Lion Man mixes, which were a joy, and the Simon's Cat films.


Live
The bell tolls. Unless I am very much mistaken, I do believe that 2008 was the first year since 1981 during which I did not attend one gig. Not one. You may blame my age, but frankly, you'd be off the mark, as I don't feel any older at 43 than I did at any other time in my forties, during which Arctic Monkeys got me out of the house with a renewed gusto, and during which time I also paid good money to see Arcade Fire and Goldfrapp and Franz Ferdinand and Kasabian and various reformed oldies like Carter and PWEI and Bauhaus. Something has died inside me, I'm afraid. So, no gig of the year. Saw some good plays, such as That Face by Polly Stenham and God Of Carnage by Yasmina Reza (translated by Christopher Hampton), whose cast - Ralph Fiennes, Ken Stott, Tamsin Greig and Janet McTeer - it was an absolute privilege to have seen, right in front of my eyes. There really is something special about the theatre, but it must remain an occasional pleasure in these belt-tightening times. I loved Matthew Bourne's Nutcracker! at Sadler's Wells, too. As for live comedy, my two-night stay in Edinburgh meant I only saw Richard Herring and Stewart Lee, which was a little conservative of me, but I laughed loudly at both. While doing the School For Gifted Children I became captivated by Jo Neary, whose character comedy is so subtle, and whose Pan's People routine at the Bloomsbury, while tangential to the theme of the evening, was a show-stopper.


Magazines and newspapers
Once again, the New Yorker has dominated my reading year, one during which I lost all interest in the New Statesman, which handed in its spirit when Brown entered Number 10 and has failed to reclaim it. I renewed my subscription at the beginning of the year, having dabbled with the Spectator, almost out of spite. (For the record, I admired its passion, however bloodsport-based, but this was not going to be enough to sustain me through our differences of opinion.) Until Labour are back in opposition, I'm afraid the Statesman and I must part ways, as a cost-cutting exercise if nothing else. As for the ever-enlightening New Yorker, maybe its political coverage too will fall into toothlessness without a Republican in power, but I doubt it. I continue to put up with the Guardian and all the woeful "personality journalism" that fills G2, but have read much more widely this year, due to the podcasts, and I'm starting to understand, without condoning the worst excesses of, the Mail. To ignore it and dismiss it is just as silly as believing it.


Highs
Now is not the time to be contrary: what greater feeling was there this year than when Barack Obama took Pennsylvania and it all fell into place after all those months of campaigning? I'm glad I experienced this crazy night at the CNN party, among political groupies, although I felt like death warmed up the next day and was physically unable to feel any joy for about 24 hours. I do not think Obama walks on water, but he's the best chance the world has got, and something of a relief after the other man.


Lows
Let's not dwell on those, for fear of me citing the damp squib sales and lack of any visible promotion of the paperback of That's Me In The Corner - which I listed as a "low" last year! It's the gift that goes on giving! Move on! Although when Scouting For Girls covered London Calling by The Clash at the Olympics handover party - and, to ensure its translation into an indie singalong, altered the words - I wondered if perhaps we hadn't already arrived at hell in that handcart.

Here's hoping for a good-mannered, energised, positive-thinking, not-too-unemployed 2009, with less territorial pissings and wanton aggression from scientists, a closed-down Guantanamo Bay, less intrusion on our private lives (some chance), and a more rigorous, tested voting system for the next series of Strictly.

Today is the day that the first ever Collings & Herrin & Jupitus & Wilding Festive Perfect Twelve Special Podcast comes out. We recorded it last week. In this special one-off podclash, we join Phill Jupitus and Phil Wilding in their posh studio: four men and a hat, discussing twelve festive things, including Christmas films, Christmas foodstuffs, Christmas carols and outfits we'd like to see Christmas turkeys wearing. All powered by one warm can of Carlsberg. Note: this is the lo-fi, extra-length Collings & Herrin version, recorded on a laptop with one of us rather louder than the other due to the poor placement of said laptop; the studio version - shorter and properly miked and equalised and everything - is available from the usual Phill and Phil outlets. Collect 'em all!

Wow. My friends Howard and Louise have started their own original rock t-shirts mail-order company called Saltyrockz. I am probably not rock'n'roll enough any more to wear them, but you might be. The designs look brilliant. I hereby direct you to their new website. Have a look around. Feel the width.

Supernatural deity Robin Ince has spoken. What he described as his "folly" ("it was meant to resemble the Royal Institute lectures, but ended up more like the Royal Vairety Show") was made flesh on Thursday and Friday at the Bloomsbury Theatre in London, where Eight Lessons and Carols for Godless People and Nine Lesson and Carols for Godless People took place. The venue holds 500 people; he sold the Friday out, added the Thursday, which also sold out, forcing a third date on Sunday at the Hammersmith Apollo, by which time Ricky Gervais had been officially added to the sprawling bill of comics, non-comics, scientists, musicians and thinkers, and thus will attract a slightly different audience, I suspect. I was asked to appear on the bill for Thursday and Friday, but not Sunday, which is a blessing (if you'll pardon the eclesiastical imagery), as I really don't think I'm ready for Hammersmith, and would have got no sleep beforehand through nerves.

I was pretty nervous on Thursday - tired from overwork (ain't it always the way the week before you promise to "wind down"?), gunning for flu with that tickly sore throat and filled with self-doubt. What the hell was I thinking agreeing to appear on a bill at a theatre? To do ten minutes on the secular nature of The Posedion Adventure? What if it was shit? What if I couldn't do it in ten minutes? What if they hated me?

I have been granted a golden opportunity to dabble in a kind of non-stand-up stand-up this year, thanks to Robin's unique patronage and encouragement. It's all thanks to the catholic door policy (again, excuse the religion) of his School For Gifted Children nights, at which I've notched up five appearances this year, one at Battersea Arts Centre, one in Camden, and three at the School's natural home, the Albany, each one less nervewracking than the one before. The idea is to talk about something you're interested in, so I've talked about serial killers, disaster movies and the Mitford Sisters. It's been an education, and a privilege to hang out backstage with the august likes of Stewart Lee, Dave Gorman, Will Hodgson, Josie Long, Jo Neary, Waen Shepherd and countless others, and then to see them in action at close range. I have also rubbed shoulders with scientists like Ben Goldacre and Simon Singh, who gave interesting talks too. It's not exactly the comedy-club bearpit of legend - the audience tend to be polite and partisan and interested to hear some stuff. They helped build my confidence as a would-be performer.

But the Bloomsbury? Because of the venue, Robin had lined up some even bigger names than usual, all given the same ten-minute ceiling, so as cram everything into three hours. Richard Dawkins - a God to the godless - gave a reading on both nights; Tim Minchin closed both shows; Robyn Hitchcock and Luke Haines played a song each; Martin White had assembled his orchestra, who played everybody on (I had Auld Lang Syne); Phill Jupitus and Mark Thomas played on Friday; my friend Richard Herring played on Thursday; also Natalie Haynes, Phil Jeays, Chris Addison, and alumni Singh, Goldacre, Neary, Long, Shepherd and Lee - plus the aforementioned Gervais, who did it as a favour for his friend Robin, and was the biggest name of all. He also did eight minutes.

Backstage was a gas. One big dressing room full of comedians and musicians and thinkers, lots of red wine, very little cold beer, some vanishing sandwiches, and running orders both up to date and out of date strewn everywhere to increase the tension. There were a lot of familiar faces, which helped relax me as I obessively read and re-read my notes. I was more nervous about overrunning than forgetting any of it. Because, on Thursday, the fabled red light to tell us when to wrap up either didn't appear, or wasn't noticed by anyone, everybody ran over, including our glorious leader, and because Natalie and I were on very late (at 9.50 and 10.00 respectively), we genuinely feared being bumped to make way for Tim. As it was, we picked up the pace after the interval, and because both Josie and Christina Martin came in at about four minutes each, we made it. From backstage and side-of-side, the evening felt like a conceptual and comedic success. Lots of educated, secular laughter at jokes about Ann Coulter, David Hume and the inaccuracy of Katie Melua's lyrics. Because nobody was on for long, there wasn't time for the audience to develop a dislike for anyone. It was great to see old pros like Mark Thomas and Phill Jupitus paring down their sets to eight minutes (Phill read out some poems, which was rather lovely). I have always loved being in the orbit of talented comedians, to soak up their skills, but only now am I doing so to try and improve my own.

I took the model of the SS Poseidon I made in woodwork in 1975 after seeing The Poseidon Adventure, onstage with me, as a prop and a security blanket, and this was a wise decision. It made me less nervous, and gave me my excuse not to take the mic off the stand, like comedians do. This is not a skill I have attempted yet. I'm better off standing in one spot. I believe the Friday night was filmed in its entirety by the godlike Go Faster Stripe, so who knows, you might be able to see it in the New Year. I hope so. It was tremendous to be part of it. Just another job of work for most of the professionals who took part, but an episode of Jim'll Fix It for me.

Brian Logan reviewed the first night for the Guardian, and gave it three stars. He didn't mention me, but did say that the second half was overloaded with "chaff". Certainly, the interval was too early, making for a top-heavy second half, and that didn't help.

An interesting year for me, all the same, topped off in spectacular fashion thanks to Robin Ince.

Today was the end of term for Colllings & Herrin. We pre-recorded (alright, recorded, which is the same as pre-recorded) our end of year special podcast, which will be available to download on December 31, which is New Year's Eve. Our Christmas special, with Phill Jupitus and Phil Wilding, will be available to download on December 23, which is Tuesday. (You can download from us, or from them, and although the content will be pretty much the same, the method of recording will be quite different.)

The picture above is Richard about to open his Christmas present from me, but you'll have to wait until New Year's Eve to find out what's in this tiny parcel. For now, here is exclusive footage of me opening the massive parcel he gave to me earlier this week.

Thank you for all your support; we will be with you over the festive period in podcast if not in body.



And thanks to iTunes for putting us in their favourite podcasts of 2008. Nice.

Well, it doesn't, but Collings & Herrin Podcast 43 does include the actual unwrapping of a present [pictured - sorry to ruin the surprise]! Having recorded next week's special Christmas foursome with Phill Jupitus and Phil Wilding, The Perfect Twelve, at their posh West End studio [available to download on December 23], we raised a festive glass, ate some noodles to soak up the alcohol and headed back to the relaxing, lo-fi comfort of the attic to see what happened. We work hard for you. Scientists will be able to study the results, as we discuss, in a rational and non-hysterical manner, the Strictly scandal, the range of hampers available this year, the throwing of a shoe [also pictured] at a president, the throwing of a second shoe at the same president, still unprotected, and the continued joy of secret dancing. It's as if the lethargy and indulgence of Christmas has come early! You actually get to hear us nodding off, live!

It's funny. I was going to promote the excellent New Humanist magazine's Advent Podcast, as Robin Ince was nice enough to ask me to contribute a "window" alongside such luminaries as Stephen Fry, Dave Gorman, Alexei Sayle and Eddie Izzard, but I've already been dismissed by two New Humanists in the blog section underneath my entry on Tony Hancock. They're like a New Humanist rapid reaction force. They certainly told me.

You are supposed to promote a scientist, philosopher or thinker as an alternative to Jesus, and I made a stupid joke about all scientists being "meddlers", which I thought was funny in the heat of having a microphone shoved in my face by Robin in an office, but I was also honest enough to admit that I don't know much about philosophers, which I why a chose a thinker: Hancock. This seems to have been far too flippant for two New Humanists. Have I incorrectly grasped Humanism? Isn't it about faith in one's fellow man rather than in a deity? Surely I can believe that and believe some other things? I had no idea it was so strict!

Anyway, the Advent Calendar is a really nice idea, with some really good contributions. Have a listen.

Sir Oswald Mosley. Richard Herring. One, a British politician and fascist leader, born into the aristocracy in Staffordshire, educated at Winchester College and Sandhurst, his politics forged in the trenches of the First World War, a noted philanderer and womaniser, incarcerated during the Second World War because of his links with Hitler, Mussolini and the Union of British Fascists, married to Diana Mitford, father of five, including Max Mosley, the future Formula 1 boss, sexual role-player and eventual scourge of the News Of The World and Paul Dacre. The other, a British comedian, writer and actor (Percy the shepherd in Servants), born into a middle-class family in York but raised in Somerset, educated at either Oxford or Cambridge, whichever is the best, his politics forged in the Cheddar Gorge, a noted diarist and former womaniser, exiled from television by Jane Root and crippled professionally by his links with Stewart Lee, unmarried, father of nil, and my friend. What do these two men have in common? I have just read two books about them.

Actually, I read two books about Mosley, as both The Rules Of The Game (first published in 1982) and Beyond The Pale (1983) are now gathered together in one fat volume, written by his son Nicholas, a baronet of course. Because it's an unwieldy brick of a book - albeit a beautifully designed one - I haven't been able to carry it comfortably around with me on public transport and it's taken me a lot longer to read than my enthusiasm for its contents demanded. Mosley Jr. had his father's papers bequeathed to him and wrote the book after his death. His widow Diana greatly disapproved of the finished product, probably because it has so many icky love letters in it between Oswald and his first wife Cimmie (boy, do they use some silly nicknames for each other!). The picture it paints of "the Leader", as so many called him, or "Tom" as he was known in social circles due to having the same name as his horrible dad, as a driven, charismatic, infectious but often utterly deluded intellectual and swordsman.

Nicholas is bold enough to weave in his own early memories, which obviously become more reliable and vivid the older he gets - I found the passages that deal with his time at Eton in the 1930s hugely illuminating; in many ways being the son of a British fascist and how you process that is as informative as just reading about the British facist himself. Although the subject is Oswald Mosley and his often insane bids for power (after successfully entering Parliament aged 22 as Conservative MP for Harrow, he crossed the floor to Labour, then went independent, resigning in 1930, and was never elected for anything ever again, despite all the noise he made, right up until the late 1950s), Nicholas allows the second volume to become as much an autobiography as a biography. The Leader dominates, even when he's in prison during the war, or in his Parkinson's-afflicted dotage. He truly was a great man, in the sense that he was influential and noteworthy, but he punched below his intellectual weight, electorally, attracting thugs and idiots to his cause, many of whom were in it for the punch-ups, or, latterly, because they simply didn't much like the new Commonwealth visitors to Notting Hill.

He was a patriot, and had big plans for Britain, should he get elected, which he didn't. He actually wanted Africa to be turned into a big farm for Europe. No, really. He also claimed not to be anti-Semitic, while explicitly demonising Jewish financiers in the 30s and blaming them for Europe's ills, and frankly allowing anti-Semites to march behind him throughout this period. He and Diana were secretly married in the Goebbels' house in Munich, and Hitler brought them a nice wedding present (a signed, framed picture of Hitler, the Nazi narcissist), so it's very difficult for them to wriggle out of accusations that they were Nazi-lovers. They were. But they were during an official period of appeasement, and were not that different from most English aristocrats, who sort of wanted things to stay the same and knew that war in Europe would fuck everything up for their class. Mosley, force of nature that he was, just went further than more aristocrats. They just turned a blind eye to Hitler; Mosley buddied up to him, and managed to sercretly get funds from Mussolini, which is one of the reasons why he ended up in the nick. The deal he tried to do with Germany just before war was declared was about setting up a commercial radio network. This makes fascinating reading.

It's hard to like Mosley. He's a bully, an egomaniac, and finds it impossible to keep his fly buttoned, but he is in possession of a keen mind, and a constantly questioning one. He and his son, once Nicholas is old enough to join the army and engage with the world, exist in a state of perpetual mental improvement, swapping literature and philosophy and theory like father and son playing an eternal game of existential table tennis. It is this that makes Beyond The Pale the more more opaque and self-indulgent of the two volumes. I'm not very good on philosophy and found much of their jousting impenetrable. And the author races to the end, dashing off the three decades after the war in a couple of chapters. (Diana's memoir, A Life Of Contrasts, is more even in this respect, but deeply biassed in Mosley's favour - she was devoted to him until she died. At least Mosley came to dislike Hitler, latterly referring to him as "that terrible little man", while Diana swooned over him virtually on her deathbed.)

Mosley wrote his own books, which I haven't read, but these are quoted liberally throughout Rules Of The Game and Beyond The Pale. There's also an apparently definitive biography by Robert Skidelsky, but the relationship between Nicholas and his nutty dad is what makes these two volumes so gripping.

Bye Bye Balham is the first volume of Richard Herring's autoblogography, selected extracts from his daily blog Warming Up. These existing bulletins from the day-to-day life of a professional comedian and writer living alone in London have literally been warmed up for re-consumption. And yet, even those who read these entries at the time (the first batch run from 2002-2003, when the author ups sticks and moves from a flat in Balham to a large house in which to rattle around in Shepherd's Bush) - as I did - will find them surprisingly refreshed by the passage of time, and lent new perspective by, well, being in perspective.

Although it's only five or six years ago, the diffrence between the 35-year-old Herring and the 41-year-old one are subtly profound. His footnotes help to place his own shortcomings in context, such as his failure to keep the weight off, or to up his workrate, and the success he has subsequently enjoyed as a stand-up, here marked by tentative steps into the solo arena. It's the daily nature of the format that gives his solipsistic reports from another dreary dressing room and another undistinguished round of sandwiches such power. Yes, the life of a touring stand-up is dull, but it is also the source of unlikely highs. Only by talking to us every single day (some of the entries have been excised, although not enough of the ones about number plates) does Richard build this vivid picture. He's already done all the legwork. This is his reward as much as ours.

What makes the first volume particulalry poignant is the disintegration of his relationship with "S" (and her baby, "P" - oops), the woman he planned to put in the big house he'd bought, but who ended up not making that particular journey. Only in retrospect does Richard feel able to reveal the finer points of this break-up - and certain other too-painful subplots - and it enriches the existing text. What seems like a personal blog actually turns out to be a censored version of the truth, or at least a selective one, and what the author left out increases your respect for him.

It's full of punctuation mistakes, but I shall take these up with the publisher. And at least he's not a fascist*.

*Although he did support Tony Blair's invasion of Iraq, the fucking idiot.

Steve Berry writes movingly about the sad passing of his cat, Heidi, on his blog Unloveable, here. I asked if he minded me linking to it, and he doesn't. When your cat dies, it's good to share, I have found. (Clearly, if you're not a cat person, or a pet person, or if you're not in a fit emotional state to read about the death of a cat, you might wish to give it a miss, but it's a nice piece of writing.)

In the 42nd Collings & Herrin Podcast, for those interested in such fripperies, we ignore the news for the first 27 minutes while we talk about very little, but when we do finally acknowledge the outside world and the events therein, it's Lisa Snowden's potentially dangerous jive, Terry Wogan's tumble dryer, a Hampshire lollipop man's tinsel-decorated sign, the Sun's Military awards and the decision to allow Andy McNab to appear in the judges photograph with a small blackboard over his face [to which we pay tribute in our picture], and that's it. Sadly, Andrew mucked about with the computer and it ends before the traditional one hour and six minutes. You should be aware of that.

Extra podcast news! The first ever Collings & Herrin Video Podcast, recorded in July, is now available to buy, as an extra on Richard's latest DVD, Oh Fuck I'm 40, which you can buy from Go Faster Stripe here. Unfortunately, you have to get the boring film of his gig, but the good part, with me on it, is on Disc 2. You can just throw Disc 1 away, or give it to charity.

It would be wrong of me not to tragically post some screen-grabs of my brief appearance on primetime BBC1, presenting a just-over-two-minute item on last night's The One Show about films that are better than the books, so here they are, for Richard Herring:






Having now watched it back, like a sportsperson watching back a match or swing or pole-vault, I can say that I crammed quite a lot of words in. Whether this is a good or bad thing for an auditioning TV presenter, I don't yet know. The wide-angle camera lens was not especially flattering, and it's a shame that they didn't use my walking-and-talking intro (although if they had, it would have made a mockery of all the effort they put into setting up a rail in the cinema to roll the camera along for the dolly shot), but most of all, I would like to personally apologise to the ten people of Hampstead we interviewed for vox pops but who ended up on the cutting room floor, which is these days a bit of a hard drive and thus not so romantic. I hope you didn't sit down at 7pm all excited, with your families gathered around you, waiting for your moment of primetime BBC1 fame. At least you didn't use the word "leaner" twice in just over two minutes, which I did.

It's on iPlayer for six more days (and it starts at 09.26 if you want to avoid the other bits of the programme). Perhaps I will soon be able to add it to the list of famous TV programmes I have been on once and never asked back: Newsnight Review, The Big Breakfast, The Wright Stuff, Richard & Judy. Although I was on magazine show The Loafers on BBC Choice, presented by Steve Coogan's brother, twice in 1998, so maybe there is hope for my TV career yet. (I was nearly on Watchdog once, but they got Jono Coleman instead at the last minute.)

This is not a picture of me on BBC1's The One Show, but if all goes to plan, I will be making my debut on the popular early-evening news magazine show tonight. Tragically, I won't be on the sofa with Adrian and Christine, but I will be the presenter of a short film, which I made yesterday. Since the glory days of Collins & Maconie's Movie Club on late-nite ITV in the mid-90s, in which Stuart and I sat in a cinema in Hammersmith with the projector light behind us and talked to camera without an Autocue, I haven't really done much presenting. I was chuffed to be asked to present BBC4's documentary about Life On Mars two years ago, and BBC Bristol made a pilot with me that was never shown, or commissioned, about the nostalgia of everyday life, in which I was called upon to do a lot of "walking and talking" (I even presented one link from a child's swing like a real pro), but that's about it. However, on Monday I was called up by The One Show and asked if I'd like to present an item based on the premise, "Which films are better than the book?"

I drew up a shortlist of my own personal choices, and we narrowed this down to five. I won't reveal them here, in case you wish to sit down and watch The One Show tonight (BBC1, 7pm). I have no idea how the finished film will come out - or even if it really will be on (this kind of programme is prone to last-minute changes) - but it was a lot of fun to make. Funnily enough, most of my links were shot in a cinema, the Everyman in Hampstead, where I sat with a projector light behind me and talked to camera without an Autocue. Except without Radio 2's Stuart Maconie. If the film comes out OK, it will be down to the sterling work of director Brian, researchers Emma and Jimmy, and Martin, the man from the Everyman who operated the projector for us. But only I will be on the telly. And possibly some members of the public whom I harrassed for vox pops on the expensive streets of Hampstead. I expect all ten or so people we filmed will be tuned in tonight, hoping they will be on. I have more chance of being on than them, unless Brian the director went a bit mad in the editing suite and decided to deliver an esoteric, French New Wave-style film with jump cuts, in which I don't appear, but people from Hampstead do, their words unsettlingly cut together over a jazz soundtrack.

It's weird sitting in a cinema saying the same words over and over again, sometimes to a moving camera on a dolly, sometimes to a fixed camera, sometimes leaning over the back of the seat, sometimes facing forward, sometimes turning your head towards the screen after speaking, sometimes holding up a book, sometimes not. And then saying some of the same words while walking down the street in Hampstead, finding yourself not in the least bit selfconscious about doing this unlikely thing because you're in the moment, and there's a job to be done.

The film will be two minutes long, unless they cut it down to fit something else in. It took three hours to film it, and far more hours than that for Brian and Emma and Jimmy to set everything up and take it all down again, and to source all the books and DVDs needed, and organise the rights to show them.

Fingers crossed Brian didn't go native in the edit.

I have been to hell. It is called the DHL Express collection depot in Vauxhall, South London. I was unfortunate enough to have to find it, deep within an industrial estate off Nine Elms Road just past Battersea Dogs Home, at the weekend, as DHL had tried to deliver a package to me but I wasn't in. This was mildly inconvenient but hey, it's all part of the warp and weft of an interconnected world. At least I drive: it's quite a hike from the nearest station if you don't. Anyway, I've done this dance before with the Post Office; I know the score: you hand your card to a man behind a counter and he goes and finds your package. You show ID, sign for it and take it away, beaming, with a spring in your step. Not at DHL Express in Vauxhall.

I arrived at around 14:40 on Saturday, in plenty of time for the 15:00 closing. I parked in the customer car park and followed the yellow signs, as instructed by the man at the barrier. On arrival at what I thought was the collection point, I realised I must have accidentally followed the wrong signs and come to the DHL refugee camp. Spilling out of the office into the corridor were all these people. Sad-looking, downtrodden, staring-eyed people, gathered hopefully around the desk and peering through the door. There were children being optimistically bounced on knees to keep them amused, and babies crying. Others simply looked bereft of hope, and huddled together for comfort. One man was shouting and swearing at a man behind the counter. Some looked away, others gawped as he leaned over and gave the blameless DHL employee a swear-filled earful and stabbed the counter with his finger, clearly frustrated. It turns out that this was the DHL collection point. Apparently some of these people had already been waiting an hour. There was no queue. No order. No method that I could see. Just people, presumably neither sad-looking nor downtrodden nor staring-eyed until they'd arrived at this appalling place, this circle of hell, this way-station to oblivion.

The room was dirty and unloved, quite different from the bright, shiny images in the DHL adverts and on the DHL website. The staff were dour and overworked, again quite different from the beautiful models in the DHL adverts and on the DHL website. Perhaps they started out happy and shiny, but working for DHL ground them down. Stepping over bodies to the desk, I was asked for my bright yellow DHL card by another DHL employee, which I handed over. I gave the man my postcode. He tried to tap my serial number into a very old-looking computer while the other DHL employee tried to calm the angry customer down.

The angry customer had ordered a car seat and a pushchair from Mothercare. This was the second time he'd been in to this fifth circle of hell, and once again, I ascertained, Mothercare had failed to send the car seat. The customer was understandably irked by this and on the verge of using a swear word a bit like Mothercare, but it was clearly not DHL's failure, rather, Mothercare's. The employee did not have the authority or eloquence to convey this logic to the customer, who demanded that the employee check his fucking paperwork. The employee showed the man the paperwork, which clearly stated one item, not two. I wished the man wasn't swearing in front of children (I hope he doesn't swear in front of the child he is going to put in the pushchair), but he was in no mood to worry about such social niceties.

The man who had put my details into the old-looking computer had about ten bright yellow DHL cards in his hand. An officious woman in glasses at the counter started prodding the cards, saying hers was on the bottom of the pile and she'd been here first - presumably an hour ago. The employee seemed to be waiting until he had a lot of cards before taking them through and finding the packages they related to. This made the woman in glasses cross. She actually left the room to get some air. There wasn't much air left in the room, what with about 25 people crammed randomly into it. I had begun to dream of the streamlined funtionality of the Argos collection point.

The clock passed 15:00. Three of the band of refugees I had now joined turned out to be from a cleaning firm who were there to clean the computers. Eventually, they were let through, even though the employee who had taken the bright yellow cards had no record of them. He opened the door and they filed through. They could have been terrorists, but the man was too hassled to argue. Eventually the customer without the car seat left in a cloud of expletives. The employee had offered to photocopy his documents so that he could contact Mothercare, but the customer was so angry he left them there. The atmosphere in the DHL collection depot in Vauxhall is not conducive to clear thinking.

A tired-looking female employee appeared and took the wad of yellow cards from the man, but not without a fight. He didn't seem keen to give them to her yet, and was now engaged in a discussion with an admirably soft-spoken man who was picking up what looked like some flat-pack furniture, but whose box was clearly damaged. The man demanded, softly, to open the package and check the contents before he signed for it. The employee either pretended not to understand him, or didn't understand him, and insisted it was only the box that was damaged. The man insisted back, softly, and the box was wheeled out into the waiting area where, as I believe I have mentioned, there was no room to swing a child, let alone inspect a large item of furniture.

I could go on. I have gone on. But it's a long time since I experienced a privately-run, customer service-based outlet like this collection office. People moan about the Post Office, but even if there's a long queue at the collection depot, they take one card at a time and don't deal with the next customer until the first one has been dealt with. It seems fairly sensible, and the packages get distributed during opening hours. At DHL it seems like a lottery, where the prize is something you have already paid for, and sometimes that prize might be broken. The softly-spoken man refused to take his package as it was damaged, and the DHL employee wheeled it back through. Then he asked the man to write his name and address and phone number on a sheet of paper, which struck me as impractical and flimsy in the extreme. I hope he gets a new piece of furniture that isn't broken next time.

I looked at the clock, counted the other hopeful DHL refugees around me, and decided to cut my losses. I barged my way back to the counter and, even though he was still dealing with the soft-spoken man, asked the first employee if I could have my card back, as I'd rather get the package redelivered than stay in this hellhole for one moment longer (I didn't use those words - I am polite, and also, he works there, so why remind him that he works in a depot that doesn't work, due to things like poor staffing and a busted system, neither of which are his fault). He told me that I couldn't have my card back, as somebody had already gone looking for my package.

Then the woman appeared and I asked her. She seemed hassled and said I would have to wait for my package. I was in the system and I feared a long wait. As luck would have it, when the next batch of boxes was manhandled through to the counter (I think DHL should train their staff in the simple act of carrying boxes), I glimpsed a label on one that told me it was mine. I took matters into my own hands and grabbed the box off the top of the pile. I then shoved it at the employee, who got my signature, delighted to be processing one of us, I expect. I knew I had barged in front of people who had been there at least an hour, including the woman in glasses, but I saw my chance, and when you're operating in a system of anarchy, it's every parcel-collector for himself.

I picked my way through the remaining bodies and made my escape with my box. I was not beaming. There was not a spring in my step. If DHL ever fail to deliver something to you, never opt to go and pick it up; get them to redeliver it.

(I dedicate this blog entry to the Mighty Pierre.)

In the 41st Collings & Herrin Podcast, we discuss our new current affairs-based lookalike service [pictured], the concept of secret dancing, Santa Claus being "fucking dead" according to an elf in Lapland, the intelligence of sperm, the stupidity of people who eat fast food, the price of a dog for Christmas*, the dangers of the clipboard brigade and what to ask famous film stars if you get 20 minute with them and know nothing about films. Sorry it's late, but we have been working and can't live of the occasional 99p that is locked in a PayPal account for ever.

*A hundred and twenty nine pounds.

If users of the British Library have forgotten their manners, is civilisation actually doomed?


In the Greek myth, King Midas dissed Apollo's flute-playing and was cursed with donkey's ears, which he hid under a hat. The king's barber, alone in knowing his secret, was sworn to secrecy. Dying to tell someone, he chose instead to unburden himself by shouting his secret into a hole in the ground. I know this because Stephen Fry used it as preamble on a recent "podgram" (or podcast) before essaying a foul-mouthed diatribe against the tyranny of broadcasting compliance: "Compliance with what? Compliance with stupidity? Compliance with being a moron? Compliance with making this country a shithole?" (Go for it, Stephen.)

I would normally yell the following rant into a hole, too, but a New Year is almost upon us, and it might help to share. Also, what is a blog if not a hole in the ground? To set the scene: I write, as ever now, from the British Library in London, that imperious redbrick fount wherein reside two copies of Magna Carta, the ship's log of HMS Victory and a handwritten draft of Yesterday. A number of brogue-wearers like historian Tristram Hunt have bemoaned the "pubescent histrionics" of the undergraduates now permitted to nick the best seats in the reading rooms, but bollocks to the protectionists, it's a great big library for everybody. And it's not as if it has become a lawless, traffic-cone-festooned free-for-all; rules still apply. No bags, coats, umbrellas, food, scalpels or pens can be taken into the reading rooms; thus, permitted items (laptops, notebooks, pencils, Gonks) must be carried in a supplied, reusable transparent British Library bag, which are neatly stacked each morning in large in-trays in the locker room. You've got to have a system.

However, come the end of the day, these bags are not neatly re-stacked in the trays; a substantial number are instead screwed up and chucked in a pile, thus destroying the very fabric of civilisation - and creating a mess for somebody else to tidy up. It takes almost zero effort to pat one's used bag flat and lay it down, but each day, a cavalier minority opt not to trouble themselves, perhaps assuming their mums, or the nanny, will be along later. This fuck-you attitude runs counter to the knowledge economy of the institution - "where great minds meet," to quote the posters - how can those so clever simultaneously be so ignorant?

They are the equivalent of gym members who leave wet towels on the floor or benches in the changing room - although in the defence of such linen louts, I expect they have been rendered insensible by performance-enhancing drugs or narcissistic loneliness. They might have strained a muscle in their brain. Perhaps they simply have more money than sense. But since eligibility for a British Library Reader's Pass cuts across every colour, class and tax bracket, I expect more from its fortunate bearer. It is but a short step to social breakdown, as is - my obligatory bugbear - caring enough to give to charity shops but not enough to do so during opening hours. As I have ranted into a hole before: surely it is magnanimous enough to dump a bin bag of skirts, a lampshade and a Blockbusters board game in a puddle of dog urine outside? Do these passive-aggressive philanthropists seek sadistic thrill from the thought of elderly volunteers spending Monday morning sifting through damp rubbish in the street?

In January, as regular readers will remember, I drew up my own Manners Manifesto and posted it on here, like some digital equivalent of Martin Luther nailing his Ninety-Five Theses to the church door in 1517. While Luther diced with excommunication in calling for reform of the Catholic church, I risked sounding like a Daily Mail columnist, urging people to remember the words of Derek Batey on Mr & Mrs: "Be nice to each other." To save you looking it up, the basic tenets of my Manifesto remain unchanged: smile; say please and thank you (for younger readers: "I'd like a grande decaff soya latte please. Thank you"); be friendly to strangers; help old people; give to the homeless (there's a recession on: it could be you); be polite as you close the front door to Jehovah's Witnesses (even if one of them is Prince); never swear at people on the other end of helplines; talk to people at the check-out; place litter in the bins provided, even the cellophane off cigarette packets and free, unwanted copies of Shortlist.

To help achieve my Utopian dream, I suggest you steer clear of the library or gym and go ice skating (it is, after all, the time of year). Witness in that rink a perfect microcosm of polite society: hundreds of spatially aware citizens, heading in the same direction, many on their arses but still happy and safe. Is it too much to ask that we apply the same empathy toward coexistence on non-slippery surfaces? Or, as Fry predicts, must we willingly comply with making this country a shithole?

He's done it again (Nathan Jay the clever disco songwriter, that is). The video this time is mindblowing - it's like being in my own, public transport-based computer game. And check out the detail in the adverts. If only my publishers really had advertised my books like that.

So, "disgraced" television presenter Jonathan Ross has designed the free wrapping paper in today's Guardian (was there ever a more pointless promotional idea, by the way? - and they do it every damn year). That's his big face at the top of the page. I quite like the fact that they've chosen a slightly contrite expression. But hey, it's for charity. He drew a picture for charity! He's not all bad. While he's in Hampstead-based exile, all the chatter out here is of him having his wings clipped when he returns on January 24, that the BBC is looking at its policy of large contract fees, that there will be less swearing across the networks - a smaller personality than Ross would have trouble returning to this pathetic, diluted, fearful new world (which he helped create, don't forget). Daily Mail readers would obviously prefer it if Ross were forced to roll a huge rock up a steep hill, which then rolls back down to the bottom, so he has to push it back up again, forever. The rest of us probably assume he'll be back and normal service will be resumed. But will it? What will a post-Sachsgate Ross be like? Will he be any good? We don't like the way he is sexually aggressive towards female guests, but without that outlet for his personality, will he actually be able to form sentences? Likewise, the swearing. Do you really think family man Gordon Ramsay would be able to broadcast without swearing?

As it happens, I hear Ross has been filming Sport Relief Does The Apprentice, which won't air until his work-ban is over. That's for charity, too - and a programme he told Alan Sugar on his chat show that he'd love to do, but doesn't have the time. Well, he's got the time now.

So, how do we feel about Jonathan's contrite face on the front of a newspaper? And what will we use his wrapping paper for?