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Published: 14 April 2012

Interior designer Kelly Hoppen:

The prized possession you value above all others...My father Seymour’s photo albums. He died when I was 16 from a heart attack; he was only 48. I have five albums dating back before I arrived, so they give me an insight into his life. I miss him and think of him every day.

The unqualified regret you wish you could amend...I get a sense of deep regret the morning after a big party when my head’s pounding!

The way you would spend your fantasy 24 hours, with no travel restrictions...I’d start with a jog in Hyde Park, then have breakfast at home cooked by my daughter Natasha [28], who’s a chef. Then we’d go for a walk around Portobello Market with my stepchildren [actress Sienna Miller and her sister Savannah from Kelly’s second marriage to Ed Miller, from whom she is now divorced].  I’d then meet Nelson Mandela for lunch in Mvezo, the village where he was born. I’d absorb his wisdom and humble spirit and learn from him about my own South African heritage [Kelly was born there but moved to the UK when she was two]. I’d have dinner with friends at Nobu in LA then listen to great music at the Birdland jazz club in New York.

The temptation you wish you could resist...Cadbury’s chocolate. I’ll buy a Dairy Milk, a Topic and a Ripple and scoff the lot. Oh, and a Daim Bar!

The book that holds an everlasting resonance...The Adventures Of The Wishing-Chair by Enid Blyton. It reminds me of my happy childhood.

The priority activity if you were the Invisible Woman for a day...I’d stand in a locker room while Brad Pitt and George Clooney were taking a shower!

The pet hate that makes your hackles rise...Those hideous fabric covers people put over loo seats and loo rolls. Why? They’re so unbelievably naff. 

The film you can watch time and time again...I watch It’s A Wonderful Life every year and never tire of it. It’s such a beautiful fairytale and I particularly love the angel, Clarence.

The person who has influenced you most...My mother. She always tells me the truth when others won’t. Even my friends’ children go to her for advice.

The figure from history for whom you’d most like to buy a pie and a pint...Marilyn Monroe. She was beautiful, sad, and a great actress. A few vodkas with her would be a hoot.

The piece of wisdom you would pass on to a child...Believe in yourself because if you don’t, no one else will. And never ever give up. I lecture children all over the world and tell them this.

The unlikely interest that engages your curiosity...I’m obsessed with tidying my fridge. I have a large Gaggenau and all the drinks are in ordered rows and all the food is organised in a certain way. It might be a mild form of OCD, but I don’t lie awake thinking about it!

The treasured item you lost and wish you could have again...My dad’s Taurean zodiac medallion, which was given to me after he died. It was the only thing I had that had been close to his skin. It was stolen in a burglary a couple of years later. It was very special and I wish I still had it.

The unending quest that drives you on...To always do better. No dream is too big for me and I’m always striving to do more. I’m not happy to stop.

The poem that touches your soul...The Owl And The Pussycat reminds me of my hatred of school. I’m dyslexic, so it’s impossible to memorise things, but that is the one poem I learned by heart.

The misapprehension about yourself you wish you could erase...That I only get out of bed for £300,000. That was written years ago – it’s a lie!

The event that altered the course of your life and character...When my book on style, East Meets West, was published in 2001. People loved it, which gave me the confidence I was doing something right.

The crime you would commit knowing you could get away with it...I’d steal Picasso’s Jeune Fille Endormie.

The song that means most to you... Aretha Franklin’s I Say A Little Prayer. It reminds me of wonderful, carefree times with all the family singing it.

The happiest moment you will cherish forever...Getting my MBE from the Queen in 2009 was a proud moment. When she looked at me my heart leapt!

The saddest time that shook your world...My father dying. He was a true gentleman with a great sense of humour. But such a loss so young made me self-sufficient and helped me to succeed.

The unfulfilled ambition that continues to haunt you...I’ll not rest until the world is covered in taupe! (I am well known for having taupe in my styling).

The philosophy that underpins your life...Nothing is impossible. You have to believe that to succeed.

The order of service at your funeral...I’d have a simple service and be buried next to my dad in London. I’d also lay on a party for everyone who knew me. They’d drink cocktails, eat healthy food, dance to jazz and soul, share stories and light candles.

The way you want to be remembered...As a caring and loyal person who made a positive difference to the world.

The Plug...I’m proud to be an ambassador for The Prince’s Trust. Please support this great charity by visiting www.princes-trust.org.uk.

 

 

Interior Designer Kelly Hoppen

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Published: 7 April 2012

Producer Nigel Lythgoe:

The prized possession you value above all others...My life! I nearly lost it twice in 2003. First I had a heart attack, then peritonitis [inflammation of the abdomen] after my appendix exploded. I was in hospital for three months and they removed 15ft of my intestine.  I blame the heart attack on Simon Cowell. We were on holiday in Barbados and he made me drink and smoke too much. Then one night he got me dancing with some transvestites. Back in America a few days later I collapsed!

The unqualified regret you wish you could amend...The loss of my 34-year marriage. Bonnie and I drifted apart and she divorced me in 2009. I tried to woo her back but it didn’t work. I have a huge sense of sadness about it ending.

The way you would spend your fantasy 24 hours, with no travel restrictions..I love yachting and playing golf but am too busy [Nigel produces American Idol and So You Think You Can Dance in the US]. So I’d get a yacht with my sons [Simon, 36, and Kris, 32] and my mate John and sail around the Florida coast playing the best courses. I’m a hopeless hacker, though, and play off 23, so the golf wouldn’t be pretty.

The temptation you wish you could resist...A traditional British fry-up at the King’s Head pub in Santa Monica.

The book that holds an everlasting resonance...The Hobbit by JRR Tolkien was the first book I enjoyed. I was 14 and when I finished I started it again.

The priority activity if you were the Invisible Man for a day...I’d simply have fun messing with people’s things. I’m sure someone invisible does it to me because I’m always losing stuff!

The pet hate that makes your hackles rise...When people don’t listen properly at work and then make mistakes.

The film you can watch time and time again...I saw The Godfather in London when it came out in 1972 and loved it. I’ve seen it probably 20 times – I always find something new.

The person who has influenced you most...Jon Scoffield was an incredible director and producer at ATV. I met him when I was 30 and he made great things happen in my career. He’s still alive, but we’re no longer in touch. 

The figure from history for whom you’d most like to buy a pie and a pint...Fred Astaire was a huge idol for me. He had such style and I’d love to hear all his stories about making it in showbiz.

The piece of wisdom you would pass on to a child...Keep your common sense. All too often people panic under pressure. Just stop, stay calm and think. 

The unlikely interest that engages your curiosity...I’m absorbed with education, particularly in America. The arts are being cut out of teaching yet it’s proven that children learn better when you involve passion and emotion. I’ve spoken to Congress about how you can teach through dance.

The treasured item you lost and wish you could have again...My youth! Dance has been a huge part of my life and it would be nice to still be capable of the moves I made when I was younger. I fear they’re lost forever.

The unending quest that drives you on...I’m driven by creating great TV shows and giving talent the opportunity to flourish. When you can’t do it yourself any more, you get pleasure from making it happen for others.

The poem that touches your soul...Rudyard Kipling’s If. As far as I’m concerned, it’s about common sense.

The misapprehension about yourself you wish you could erase...That I’m nasty! That persona came out of Popstars and has stuck in the UK, although no one thinks of me like that in America. Here, I’m Nurturing Nigel.

The event that altered the course of your life and character...The success of American Idol. It took me to America in 2002 and made me wealthy.

The crime you would commit knowing you could get away with it...I’d be an expert computer hacker and break into  FBI files to find out who killed JFK.

The song that means most to you...You’ve Lost That Lovin’ Feelin by The Righteous Brothers. When I was 15 in Liverpool I’d sit in a cafe with my mates playing it on the jukebox and we’d all try to hit that low note. Great times.

The happiest moment you will cherish forever...The birth of my son, Simon. He was yellow with a pointy head and the nurse said, ‘He looks like his dad!’

The saddest time that shook your world...Receiving divorce papers in 2005 broke my heart. They arrived just before Christmas and I was distraught.

The unfulfilled ambition that continues to haunt you...It doesn’t haunt me, but I’d like to direct a feature film – a romantic comedy, a musical or a sci-fi.

The philosophy that underpins your life...Never be horrible to anyone – unless they’re horrible to you.

The order of service at your funeral...Having faced death before, it doesn’t scare me. My only worry is how it’ll affect my kids and the people who love me. I’d like my ashes scattered in the Pacific somewhere off the coast of LA.

The way you want to be remembered...As someone who was always passionate in everything he did and said. He wasn’t always right, but he tried.

The Plug...Nigel set up the Dizzy Feet Foundation in 2009 to help young people become dancers. Visit www.dizzyfeetfoundation.org

 

 

Producer Nigel Lythgoe

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Published: 31 March 2012

Presenter Fern Britton:

The prized possession you value above all others...A pussycat soft toy called Johnson. He was bought for my older sister Cherry but I fell in love with him when I was two. He’s always on the bed but Phil (her second husband, chef Phil Vickery) chucks him off.

The unqualified regret you wish you could amend...I have regrets, but nothing I haven’t dealt with. You have to learn from mistakes, tidy them up and move on, or they’ll finish you off.

The way you would spend your fantasy 24 hours, with no travel restrictions...I’d have breakfast in my garden in Buckinghamshire with Phil and the children [twins Jack and Harry, 18, Gracie, 14, and Winnie, ten]. Then I’d hang a perfect row of laundry. For elevenses I’d stroll around St Tropez, then zoom round in a 1957 Riva speedboat. I’d have a massage on a tropical island, then go to a West End theatre for a good laugh. Supper would be lobster, new potatoes and Hellmann’s mayonnaise with Phil on a Cornish beach. I’d end the day at home watching Antiques Road Trip.

The temptation you wish you could resist...It would be good to curb my internet shopping – I buy everything online, from underwear to gadgets.

The book that holds an everlasting  resonance...Bram Stoker’s Dracula. When I was 14, Cherry and I read it to each other with a bottle of port. We thought Dracula was misunderstood!

The priority activity if you were the Invisible Woman for a day...I’d nip into the Treasury and see how much we have in the coffers, then apportion it properly.

The pet hate that makes your hackles rise...I can’t stand people whistling. It makes me want to kill them.

The film you can watch time and time again...Top Hat with Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers. The dancing is sensational. I love old films.

The person who has influenced you most...My mother, who’s 88. She taught me that ‘everything passes’.  

The figure from history for whom you’d most like to buy a pie and a pint...Mary Tudor, Henry VIII’s sister. She had a horrible childhood: abandoned by her father, forbidden from seeing her mother. No wonder she cracked up.

The piece of wisdom you would pass on to a child...Hard work brings good things. And I don’t just mean professionally. You have to work at relationships and friendships, too.

The unlikely interest that engages your curiosity...I’m hopelessly addicted to Formula One motor racing and even play in an online fantasy league.

The treasured item you lost and wish you could have again...My grandma’s gold wedding band. I was really upset when a burglar stole it in 1990.

The unending quest that drives you on...To always keep my mind alive and interested in new things. I don’t want to ever feel my life has stopped.

The poem that touches your soul... Robert Frost’s Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening. It is so evocative that I can feel the chill.

The misapprehension about yourself you wish you could erase...People assume I’m a cuddly, mumsy girl next door who’s a bit naive. That is 50 per cent of me, but the other half likes to drink margaritas and dance on the tables until 2am and is not shocked by anything. People underestimate me.

The event that altered the course of your life and character...Getting a job as a continuity announcer at Westward Television in Plymouth when I was 23.

The crime you would commit knowing you could get away with it...I’d be a crack assassin and shoot world leaders who are oppressing their people.

The song that means most to you...Dionne Warwick’s I Say A Little Prayer. It reminds me of the earliest days with Phil. We played it as we walked down the aisle when we renewed our vows [in 2008, after marrying in 2000]. It’s our little song.

The happiest moment you will cherish forever...Knowing that Phil and I had fallen in love. I was saying goodbye after our first weekend together and neither of us wanted to be apart. Two months later we were living together.

The saddest time that shook your world...Having fertility treatment and failing three times in the early 1990s. The disappointment was crushing, but on the fourth attempt I had the twins.

The unfulfilled ambition that continues to haunt you...To have a perfect garden with borders that consistently change through the seasons.

The philosophy that underpins your life...Just DO it!

The order of service at your funeral...I’d like fairy lights on my wicker coffin and my ashes to be scattered during a speedboat ride in Padstow, Cornwall, one warm summer’s evening. My children always joke that they’ll put ‘Shut that bloody door!’ on my gravestone.

The way you want to be remembered...I don’t expect to be remembered by anyone other than my children. I envisage being in an old people’s home and telling people I used to be on television and everyone thinking, ‘Oh dear, she’s finally lost the plot!’

The Plug...My second novel, Hidden Treasures, is published by HarperCollins on Monday, priced £12.99. I’m supporting The Genesis Research Trust’s cycle ride in Sri Lanka in 2013. Please join us by visiting www.iogt.org.uk.

 

 

Presenter Fern Britton

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Published: 24 March 2012

Author Peter Mayle:

The prized possession you value above all others...My dog Nellie, a Korthals Griffon – given to me as a birthday present ten years ago by my wife Jennie – is a source of daily joy. Never critical, always good-humoured. A treasure.

The unqualified regret you wish you could amend...I left school at 16 and skipped university to work, initially as a waiter. I think I missed out on what would have been great years.

The way you would spend your fantasy 24 hours, with no travel restrictions..I no longer have any desire for long-distance travel. I prefer to stay in my home at Lourmarin, Provence. A perfect day here would include breakfast in the sunshine, a walk in the Luberon Regional Park, an extended session in the pool, and a long lunch with friends at the Auberge de la Môle  restaurant near St Tropez. Not very exotic, I’m afraid, but very pleasant.

The temptation you wish you could resist...I would dearly love to resist the temptation, if you can call it that, to worry. It’s boring, it’s anti-social, it’s unproductive and it’s depressing.

The book that holds an everlasting resonance...The Elements Of Style, by William Strunk and EB White. It was first published in 1918 and remains a concise reminder of how to write. My copy was given to me more than 40 years ago by my old boss, David Ogilvy. [Mayle worked for the advertising guru in New York for 15 years.] 

The priority activity if you were the Invisible Man for a day...I’d visit the kitchen of the Élysée Palace when the cooks are preparing a banquet for a particularly unpopular head of state. Could they resist putting something disgusting in his soup?

The pet hate that makes your hackles rise... Meanness, social or financial.

The film you can watch time and time again...Lawrence Of Arabia, because of David Lean’s direction and Peter O’Toole’s performance.

The person who has influenced you most...David Ogilvy, who cured my sloppy writing habits and taught me about advertising.

The figure from history for whom you’d most like to buy a pie and a pint...I’d like to arrange for myself, Napoleon and Margaret Thatcher to get together. Listening to them re-writing history would be absolutely fascinating.

The unlikely interest that engages your curiosity...American politics, which are even more grotesque and pretentious than British politics.

The treasured item you lost and wish you could have again...The blind optimism of youth.

The piece of wisdom you would pass on to a child...Carpe diem – seize the day – and try not to take life seriously. I have a robust sense of humour which helps me deal with problems.

The unending quest that drives you on...Fear of poverty. What also keeps me going is the hope that the next book I write will be better than the last.

The poem that touches your soul...When I was at school, my punishment for sniggering in class was to write out William Wordsworth’s I Wandered Lonely As A Cloud 200 times. That dampened my enthusiasm for poetry, something which persists to this day. I prefer prose.

The misapprehension about yourself you wish you could erase...I can’t think anyone has the time or interest to have misapprehensions about me.

The event that altered the course of your life and character...In the early Sixties, when I was 23, I left England to go and work in advertising on Madison Avenue, New York. It was the era of Mad Men and I loved it. At 26 I was earning more than the British Prime Minister. Those years in America made me feel that anything was possible.

The crime you would commit knowing you could get away with it...I’d eliminate George Bush, Tony Blair, Dick Cheney and Donald Rumsfeld.

The song that means most to you...These Foolish Things by Bryan Ferry because I love the lyrics and it always reminds me of my wife.

The happiest moment you will cherish forever...There have been so many happy moments, I cherish them all. But I hope the happiest is yet to come.

The saddest time that shook your world...The death of close friends is always sad. Recently a neighbour and friend of 40 years died and his going leaves a sad gap in our lives.

The unfulfilled ambition that continues to haunt you...I’d love to have played cricket for England, but I fear the window of opportunity has been firmly closed for some time.

The philosophy that underpins your life...One must never forget that life is unfair. But sometimes, with a bit of luck, this works in your favour.

The order of service at your funeral...I’ve often thought the best time to die would be after a long lunch – just before the bill arrives! I loathe funerals, and would prefer not to have one. Instead, I’d like to put aside enough in my will for a lavish lunch for a few friends.

The way you want to be remembered...With amusement and affection.

The Plug...Peter’s latest novel, The Marseille Caper, will be published by Alfred A Knopf and Quercus Books in September.

 

 

Author Peter Mayle

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Published: 17 March 2012

Writer and comic Ruby Wax:

The prized possession you value above all others...My iPhone 3. I’m not sentimental about possessions but my phone has all my numbers. I would lose my meaning on Earth if it disappeared.

The unqualified regret you wish you could amend...Not having boyfriends earlier in life. I didn’t have my first serious relationship until I was 27. I wish I’d been a raver and had lots of flings.

The way you would spend your fantasy 24 hours, with no travel restrictions...I’d have a totally self-indulgent, all pampering spa day with some girlfriends. I’d begin in the Maldives, then go to Bali, where I’d have ten people massaging me. I guess I should spend time with my husband [TV producer Ed Bye] and our kids [Max, 23, Madeleine, 21, and Marina 18]. I’d meet them in Hawaii for some surfing then I’d go to the Schloss Elmau hotel in the German Alps which has four spas.

The temptation you wish you could resist...Binge spending. Generally I’m careful but then I’ll buy something insanely expensive like a pair of leopard-print Prada trainers for £500.

The book that holds an everlasting resonance...The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath. The main character, Esther Greenwood, is a freak who doesn’t fit in. I read it when I was 16 and completely identified with her. Plath was a rebel who went nuts and killed herself. Her story couldn’t be more romantic.

The priority activity if you were the Invisible Woman for a day...I’m ashamed to say I’d hang out at Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie’s house.

The pet hate that makes your hackles rise...I can’t stomach inane girly chat. I have to move away when they start yabbering on about their baby.

The film you can watch time and time again...A Clockwork Orange. I saw it 17 times and fell in love with Malcolm McDowell, even though he beat up old people to Beethoven. You can see why I had trouble with men.

The person who has influenced you most...

Alan Rickman. We met at the Royal Shakespeare Company when I was 23. He was my mentor and told me to start writing comedy. I wouldn’t have a job if it weren’t for Alan.

The figure from history for whom you’d most like to buy a pie and a pint...Cleopatra, the most powerful woman ever. I’d like to know the truth behind the legend – and how she did her make-up.

The piece of wisdom you would pass on to a child...You only have one shot at this life, so try everything and do not be afraid. Life is for a limited run. I always do things that scare the hell out of me.

The unlikely interest that engages your curiosity...I’m studying for a masters degree in Mindfulness-Based Cognitive Therapy at Oxford University. It focuses on how the brain works. I was hopeless at school, so no one appreciates how unlikely this is more than me!

The treasured item you lost and wish you could have again...My Davy Crockett hat, which flew out the car window when we were driving in Wisconsin. I was 13 and had loved that hat for years.

The unending quest that drives you...To find ways of helping people understand how to calm the turbulence of their mind so they can have some solace.

The poem that touches your soul...Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night by Dylan Thomas. It’s so passionate.

The misapprehension about yourself you wish you could erase...That I’m some screaming American. It’s a persona I made up – I’m a real softball.

The event that altered the course of your life and character...Getting into the RSC. I didn’t have a lot of hope, but I got in and it changed my life.

The crime you would commit knowing you could get away with it...

I would steal everything from the designer departments at Selfridges. I love it.

The song that means most to you...Twist And Shout. John Lennon’s voice made me scream and it reminds me of sticking Beatles posters on my ceiling.

The happiest moment you will cherish forever...Going to Oxford University for matriculation in September 2010. I was wearing a bat costume (gown and mortar board) and was so insanely happy that I felt like I’d left my body. Something like that happening was never on the cards for me.

The saddest time that shook your world...Whenever I have depression. The last time was in February 2006 and it lasted for four months. It was like being in a coma but you’re awake.

The unfulfilled ambition that continues to haunt you...I wish I’d done some serious documentaries. I was asked to interview Yasser Arafat and Gaddafi in the 1990s, but someone at the BBC said: ‘You don’t do that stuff’. I could have done a good job.

The philosophy that underpins your life...Stay curious. I am very interested in other people, which is good because it stops you from being self-obsessed.

The order of service at your funeral...Maybe I’d have my ashes scattered at the Reethi Rah in the Maldives – one of the world’s most expensive resorts. I could have room service for eternity.

The way you want to be remembered...As the most fascinating, mould-breaking woman that ever walked the earth!

The Plug...I have just launched Black Dog Tribe, a website that helps people with mental illnesses meet one another. Visit www.blackdogtribe.com.

 

 

Writer And Comic Ruby Wax

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Published: 10 March 2012

Actor Timothy Spall:

The prized possession you value above all others...A silver-tipped cane that belonged to Bram Stoker [the Dracula author]. It was given to me in the late 80s by the journalist Daniel Farson, his great-nephew, who was a dear friend of mine. The stories it could tell...

The unqualified regret you wish you could amend...I still feel bad about taking a ten-shilling note off a smaller boy when I was five. He’d just found it and I bullied him. I felt so ashamed I gave it to an Asian woman with a baby.

The way you would spend your fantasy 24 hours, with no travel restrictions...My wife Shane and I would wake up on our barge, The Princess Matilda, on the Helford River near Falmouth in Cornwall, then sail with dolphins in the Irish Sea. After lunch with our three kids and two grandchildren at The Palmerston pub in Dulwich, south London, I’d nip home to watch Flog It!. Later, Shane and I would watch the sunset on safari in Zimbabwe, then have a beer with my mum and three brothers on Kent’s Isle of Thanet. We’d dine at The Lobster restaurant in LA’s Santa Monica, then visit the Isle of Kerrera in western Scotland, and Margate. We’d end the day in Banff in north-east Scotland, watching the 20ft rollers come in.

The temptation you wish you could resist...Sausage rolls. But I throw the last third away to prove I have self-control!

The book that holds an everlasting resonance...Dickens’s novel The Pickwick Papers. I read it when I was recovering from leukaemia in 1996. Its wit and beauty stopped me worrying about death. It became part of my treatment.

The priority activity if you were the Invisible Man for a day...I’d listen to David Cameron and George Osborne talking in private, so I’d know what they’re really like before they put on the masks they present to the public.

The pet hate that makes your hackles rise...General bad manners.

The film you can watch time and time again...A Matter Of Life And Death with David Niven from 1946. It grips you from the first 20 seconds. 

The figure from history for whom you’d most like to buy a pie and a pint...Jesus. I’d like to know if he’s happy with how the past 2,000 years have turned out.

The person who has influenced you most...My school drama teacher Helena Mietz. After I played the lion in The Wizard Of Oz when I was 17 she said, ‘I never say this to my students because acting is a horrible profession, but you should definitely be an actor.’ Those words changed my life.

The piece of wisdom you would pass on to a child...Being kind and polite makes the world a better place. And adults are only grown-up children.

The unlikely interest that engages your curiosity...I love morris dancing. It’s an ancient ritual that celebrates life. I even shed a tear when I see people doing it.

The treasured item you lost and wish you could have again...My dad Joseph’s pocket watch. He died from stomach cancer when he was 55 and I was 24. I used to wear it but it was stolen in a burglary about 20 years ago.

The unending quest that drives you on...To keep getting better at acting, so it never looks like I’m acting.

The poem that touches your soul...Tarantella by Hilaire Belloc. It paints an amazing picture of a love that’s gone.  

The misapprehension about yourself you wish you could erase...That I’m an everyman and a man of the people who you can always talk to in the pub. In fact, I’m an intellectual snob of rich royal Prussian ancestry!

The event that altered the course of your life and character...Getting seriously ill made me realise what is and what isn’t worthwhile. Looking over the precipice of life stopped me worrying about my career, and from then on it seemed to take care of itself.

The crime you would commit knowing you could get away with it...I’d steal Turner’s painting Snow Storm – Steam-Boat Off A Harbour’s Mouth.

The song that means most to you...Dido’s Lament from Henry Purcell’s opera Dido And Aeneas. It’s about death and is one of the saddest songs of all time, but I could only enjoy it again after I was feeling better.

The happiest moment you will cherish forever...When I got the letter saying I’d got into RADA when I was 19.

The saddest time that shook your world...It was unspeakably horrible being ill and thinking about leaving Shane and my kids. But I kept saying to myself, ‘You are not going to die.’

The unfulfilled ambition that continues to haunt you...To play the drums properly. Drumming is very cathartic because you can have a good bash when you’re angry about something.

The philosophy that underpins your life...Always see the funny side.

The order of service at your funeral...A Little Of What You Fancy Does You Good sung by Marie Lloyd, plus Dido’s Lament to add some misery. I’d also want Onward Christian Soldiers, then all my mates telling stories about me at a big wake with a huge bar tab. No burial – I’d want to be fired out of a cannon from a boat off the Isle of Thanet.

The way you want to be remembered...As a good actor and quite a nice bloke.

The Plug...My wife’s book, The Voyages Of The Princess Matilda, is published by Ebury Press, priced £11.99.

 

 

Actor Timothy Spall

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Published: 3 March 2012

Broadcaster John Humphrys:

The prized possession you value above all others...There are a lot of things I like but nothing I couldn’t live without.

The unqualified regret you wish you could amend...Not going to university. I’d love to know whether I would have got a brilliant degree or been slung out after the first year. Probably the latter.

The way you would spend your fantasy 24 hours, with no travel restrictions...I’d spend the morning at my house in Greece, swimming in the warm waters of the bay, then be magically transported to west Wales where I’m renovating a ruin of a farmhouse. Because this is a fantasy day it would be perfectly restored. I would walk along the coast, with the skylarks and dolphins for company, and then come back to a log fire, a glass of wine and a good book. Bliss.

The temptation you wish you could resist...Crisps – I’m a sucker for them. I used to eat two bags of crisps a day, but I’ve cut back to one a week. It’s the ultimate sacrifice.

The book that holds an everlasting resonance...To Kill A Mockingbird confronts you with evil, but leaves you with immense hope. I’ve just finished reading it with my son Owen, who is 11. He loved it. All children should read it before they are 13.

The priority activity if you were the Invisible Man for a day...I would lurk inside Number 10 and eavesdrop on all David Cameron’s important meetings, so I would know for sure what he really thinks. And then, when he next sits opposite me in the Today studio…

The pet hate that makes your hackles rise...I hate waste, especially of food. I was brought up in post-war Britain when there was real austerity and children went hungry. Waste is morally wrong.

The film you can watch time and time again...I enjoy the cinema but I would prefer to read a book. That said, I have seen To Kill A Mockingbird with Gregory Peck many times and it is superb.

The person who has influenced you most...Nobody. I’ve always known what I wanted to do with my life, so I’ve never really sought anyone’s advice.

The figure from history for whom you’d most like to buy a pie and a pint...It has to be Jesus. The big unanswered question is: Does God exist? Clearly, the best time to meet him would be after his Crucifixion. I don’t believe in God, but no one can be sure. Except, of course, Richard Dawkins.

The piece of wisdom you would pass on to a child...Learn from your mistakes and try not to repeat them.

The treasured item you lost and wish you could have again...My innocence. It would be wonderful to see the world again through new eyes, like those of a child.

The unlikely interest that engages your curiosity...

I enjoy cooking curries. I make all my sauces from scratch and I cook at least two a week.

The unending quest that drives you on...I’d like to finish a Today programme knowing I had got the big interview exactly right – that I had asked all the right questions and reacted correctly. It hasn’t happened in the past 25 years, which is endlessly frustrating.

The poem that touches your soul...Wilfred Owen was the greatest of war poets and Dulce Et Decorum Est is his greatest. It nails the lie that it’s great and glorious to die for your country.

The misapprehension about yourself you wish you could erase...That I’m in some way a brutal, aggressive Rottweiler of an interviewer. I’m not. I’m sweet, gentle, kind and understanding!

The event that altered the course of your life and character...A life is influenced by millions of events and they all in some way shape your character.

The crime you would commit knowing you could get away with it...Well, obviously I wouldn’t tell you because I wouldn’t get away with it, would I?

The song that means most to you...A beautiful Welsh song called Myfanwy. It has a powerful resonance and reminds me of my younger days. But it must be sung by a male-voice choir.

The happiest moment you will cherish forever...Nothing compares to the birth of a child. I wasn’t allowed in the theatre when my first two children arrived by Caesarean section, but I was there for Owen’s birth. It was a wonderful moment.

The saddest time that shook your world...My brother Rob died three years ago from lung cancer when he was only 56. I miss him intensely, but I can’t say it shook my world. Death is inevitable.

The unfulfilled ambition that continues to haunt you...After that brilliant interview I have yet to conduct, the politician puts his hands up and says, ‘It’s a fair cop. You’ve got me bang to rights. I’ll go quietly.’

The philosophy that underpins your life...There’s still time to get it right.

The order of service at your funeral...There will be no funeral. Just bury me in a cardboard box near my home in Wales. If my children want readings or music, that’s entirely up to them.

The way you want to be remembered...Privately. The BBC likes having memorial services when old hands shuffle off this mortal coil, but I recoil with horror at the thought of that. No thanks.

The Plug...I’d like to thank Daily Mail readers for helping me launch The Kitchen Table Charities Trust in 2006. It continues to support thousands of the poorest people in sub-Saharan Africa.

www.kitchentablecharities.org

 

 

Broadcaster John Humphrys

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Published: 25 February 2012

Presenter Julia Bradbury:

The prized possession you value above all others...My new silver V8 Range Rover Sport Supercharged. I’m a complete petrolhead and I adore it.

The unqualified regret you wish you could amend...Writing off an old boyfriend’s Ferrari Testarossa in Monte Carlo 15 years ago. I was driving fast out of the tunnel and clipped the kerb, which sent the car into a spin. We ricocheted off the wall and ended up on the other side of the road. Luckily, we walked away uninjured, but my boyfriend wasn’t exactly happy, and our relationship went downhill after that!

The way you would spend your fantasy 24 hours, with no travel restrictions...I’d head off with loved ones and family to my family’s home in the Rutland countryside. We’d have a bracing walk, followed by a slap-up lunch prepared by my mum.

We’d then leave Zeph [her seven month old baby son] to fly off to Ibiza where we’d dance in the sand at the Jockey Club on Salinas beach. We’d fly back to London for dinner at Scalini, the best Italian restaurant outside Italy, then go to the cinema.

The temptation you wish you could resist...Chocolate milk.

The book that holds an everlasting resonance...The Prophet by Kahlil Gibran is about patience, forgiveness and how to be a good person – which I’m not sure I’ve fully mastered yet!

The priority activity if you were the Invisible Woman for a day...I’d stalk the Royal Family to see how they really interact on a casual family day.

The pet hate that makes your hackles rise...Financial meanness, like not getting your round at the pub, because it says a lot about your appetite for life.

The film you can watch time and time again...I never get tired of Jaws. Duh duh duh duh.

The person who has influenced you most...My mother. She was a designer and entrepreneur in the fashion business for 40 years and is very driven. She taught me you can achieve anything if you have the courage to go for it. She’s also the most loving, nurturing and generous person imaginable.

The figure from history for whom you’d most like to buy a pie and a pint...Boudicca. I love strong women.

The piece of wisdom you would pass on to a child...To embrace all adventures and experiences. You can’t have experiences if you’re frightened, so be brave. And always be kind and generous.

The unlikely interest that engages your curiosity...I love deep house music.

The treasured item you lost and wish you could have again...The purple corduroy trousers I had from when I was about five until I was ten. I wouldn’t wear anything else, even though I’d outgrown them. Eventually, my mum threw them away and told me I’d lost them. I was devastated and in tears for days, and kept telling her it was impossible I’d lost them. She confessed years later.

The unending quest that drives you on...Ruthless ambition. Ha ha. 

The poem that touches your soul...Prothalamion by the 16th-century poet Edmund Spenser. I like it for many reasons but mainly because it mentions my son’s name and encapsulates the essence of what he is to us. Zephyrus was the Greek god of the west wind, the softest wind that brought spring. Zeph is the fresh air in our lives.

The misapprehension about yourself you wish you could erase...That I spend my life in walking boots and a cagoule. If people see me on TV in a skirt or dress they tell me, ‘You shouldn’t wear things like that, they don’t suit you.’ Do people think I go out for the night in wellies?!

The event that altered the course of your life and character...Having Zeph. He came late in life [Julia was 41 when he was born last August] and being a mother is a thrill and an amazing adventure.

The crime you would commit knowing you could get away with it...I’d do 130mph down my favourite country road in Leicestershire. It has dips and curves that deserve to be driven wildly.

The song that means most to you...Here Comes The Sun. It’s my favourite Beatles song but I love Nina Simone’s version. It reminds me of my late 20s when I was with friends, partying, travelling and embarking on exciting careers.

The happiest moment you will cherish forever...The two moments last spring when I knew my parents’ urgent operations for cancer had been successful.  

The saddest time that shook your world...Finding out my parents had cancer. I was in shock and very upset.

The unfulfilled ambition that continues to haunt you...I’d love to become the first female presenter of Top Gear.

The philosophy that underpins your life...Always smile, no matter how outrageous your demands!

The order of service at your funeral...I  fancy having my ashes scattered under a tree somewhere hot so my spirit becomes part of the tree’s fruit. I’d want Pete Heller’s dance classic Big Love played, then everyone would have to drink a freezing shot of Aquavit. It’s so delicious I defy anyone not to feel happy after it!

The way you want to be remembered...Big nose, wonky teeth, good sense of humour.

The Plug...The Great British Countryside is on Thursdays on BBC1 at 8pm; Julia returns to BBC1’s Countryfile on 11 March at 7pm. Visit www.juliabradbury.com

 

Presenter Julia Bradbury

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Published: 18 February 2012

England cricketer Freddie Flintoff:

 

The prized possession you value above all others...My Lancashire Under 11s cap I got when I was nine for a few good batting and bowling performances. It’s light blue with a gold rose bud on the front and I was so chuffed and surprised when I got it that I wore it everywhere for weeks afterwards.

The unqualified regret you wish you could amend...Whatever you do shapes who you are, so you shouldn’t have regrets. I have made mistakes, but nothing that keeps me awake at night. Only by experiencing the bad stuff can you appreciate the good things.

The way you would spend your fantasy 24 hours, with no travel restrictions...I wouldn’t need to do anything grand. Wake up at home in Preston, then take my wife, Rachael, and the kids [Holly, eight, Corey, five, and Rocky, three] to Blackpool pleasure beach. That’s where I went as a kid and my lot love it there. We’d go on the rides, play on the beach, then have lunch at a chippy called The Cottage. Maybe in the afternoon, I could take Rachael to see the giraffes at Okavango Delta in Botswana. In the evening, I’d have a few pints at the Friargate Social Club in Preston with the wife and my closest mates, then go for a curry.

The temptation you wish you could resist...Curries. I normally have a mixed grill with a very spicy sauce and naan bread. It’s all very fattening, but tastes so good.    

The book that holds an everlasting resonance...On Green Dolphin Street by Sebastian Faulks. The England team physio convinced me to read it when we were touring New Zealand once. I wasn’t enjoying it, but he insisted I stick with it. He kept saying that it gets better, but it were (sic) dreadful right ’til the end. That’s three days of my life I’ll never get back.

The priority activity if you were the Invisible Man for a day...I’d watch my kids in the classroom to see how they behave in a different environment.

The pet-hate that makes your hackles rise...General rudeness, especially on the road when people don’t wave Thank You when you let them out, or stop to let them cross.

The film you can watch time and time again...I have watched Star Wars about 50 times. It got to the point when my older brother Chris and I would watch it and pre-empt the dialogue all the way through.

The person who has influenced you most...My dad, Colin. He worked really hard at British Aerospace to provide for the family and sacrificed a big chunk of his life to help me with my cricket. We didn’t have much money, but he made sure I had all the kit and took me all over the country to play from when I was really young.

The figure from history for whom you’d most like to buy a pie and a pint...Elvis. My first job was behind the record counter at Woolworths when I was 16, which was when the Elvis Essential Collection came out. I really got into the music. He was pretty cool, but I ‘d like to know what he was really like, hang out with him and be his mate.  

The piece of wisdom you would pass on to a child...Everyone is good at something and once you find it, what you can achieve is limitless. I doubt they’ll be making bumper stickers out of that bit of wisdom, but it’s what I believe. I let my kids have a go at everything.

The unlikely interest that engages your curiosity...Chess. I started playing when I was eight and won the Preston Championship when I was 10. I was a bit of a maverick and didn’t plan many moves ahead. I just moved where I fancied and it threw people off their game. It was a bit like my cricket – very random!

The treasured item you lost and wish you could have again...All the Star Wars figures and space ships my brother and I collected. We had the lot and some of them were very rare, but our mum got rid of them when I was about 15. I was gutted when I discovered they were gone.

The unending quest that drives you on...Being a good father is what matters most. All I want is for my kids to grow up to be happy and respectful people.  

The poem that touches your soul...Err, to be honest, me and poetry don’t really happen. I just don’t get it, but each to their own.

The misapprehension about yourself you wish you could erase...People expect me to be a larger than life party boy, full of confidence and aggression. Much of that was my persona for cricket because that’s what I had to become to be a sportsman. The bigger side of me is quite shy and I’m someone who is comfortable sat at home being quiet.

The event that altered the course of your life and character...Meeting Rachel in 2002 in a hospitality box at Edgbaston cricket ground during a Test match.  At the time, I was very lackadaisical and drifting in my career. I was nothing special, but Rachel has real drive and she helped me focus, which had a profound effect on my life.

The crime you would commit knowing you could get away with it...I got away with nicking lots of the pick ‘n’ mix at Woolworths, but these days I’d be happy speeding without getting a ticket.

The song that means most to you...Rocket Man by Elton John, which became the anthem in the England dressing room during the Ashes winning series in 2005. I started playing it one day and it just took hold. It reminds me of great times. I phoned up Elton and asked him if he would play at my testimonial dinner in Battersea Park in 2006 and I was amazed when he said Yes. He actually got me up on stage to sing Rocket Man with him!

The happiest moment you will cherish forever...The highlight of my career was being captain in 2006 when England won its first Test match in Mumbai for 21 years. On the day we won, I flew home to see my three-week-old son, Corey, for the first time.

The saddest time that shook your world...The death of my good mate Ben Hollioake in a car accident in Australia in 2002 when he was only 24. He had everything – annoyingly handsome, cool, a very talented cricketer. I was playing in a Test match in New Zealand when I was told and was out third ball because my eyes were full of tears.

The unfulfilled ambition that continues to haunt you...I wish I had played my last few years at Lancashire and given something back to the county, but my knees gave way and I had to retire at 31.

The philosophy that underpins your life...Life’s a game. It’s how you play it that matters. I enjoy playing it to the full.

The order of service at your funeral...It’s a morbid thought because I hope to live to a ripe old age, but when it happens, I’d want a wake somewhere half decent in Preston with an open mic for people to say what they like about me – good or bad. Let’s get some Elvis on – Suspicious Minds, The Wonder of You and Burning Love. I used to want to have my ashes scattered at Old Trafford but us players always hate diving into that stuff, so I won’t put the lads through it!

The way you want to be remembered...As a good dad and husband and a decent bloke.

The Plug...The Flintoff’ by Jacamo SS12 collection comes in a range of sizes to fit everyone, and is available now at www.jacamo.co.uk.

 

  

 

 

England Cricketer Freddie Flintoff

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Published: 11 February 2012

Actress Felicity Kendal:

The prized possession you value above all others...A Theo Fennell fountain pen a boyfriend gave me 25 years ago – I won’t say which one! I don’t take it out of the house in case I lose it. But I don’t love it for sentimental reasons – the gold nib just writes so beautifully.

The unqualified regret you wish you could amend...Not pushing my sister, Jennifer, who died in 1984 aged 49, into seeking the best treatment for her bowel cancer. She lived in Bombay and the healthcare there back then was not great. I wish I’d convinced her to come to Britain, or go to America, but I was young and not forceful enough.

The way you would spend your fantasy 24 hours, with no travel restrictions...

Newspapers, coffee and breakfast in the Maldives. Waking up there is magical. I’d rehearse a new play all morning, then go to my Hampshire house for a big barbecue with the extended family, cooked by my sons [Charley, 39, and Jake, 24] and nephew [Karan, 50]. Later, I’d have a Pilates class, then take my cocker spaniel George for a walk. Finally, I’d have a romantic dinner with my boyfriend Michael Rudman [the US theatre director she divorced in 1990 and reunited with in 1998] at La Famiglia, near our home in Chelsea. I’ve eaten there for 30 years and love it.

The temptation you wish you could resist...Wine, men and shopping. I love them all, but if you get too much of a good thing it can be a disaster!

The book that holds an everlasting resonance...Love In The Time Of Cholera by Gabriel García Márquez. It’s a novel about star-crossed fate and, while the story is sad, it has humour.

The priority activity if you were the Invisible Woman for a day...I’d go to MI5 HQ in London. Like actors, spies assume an identity but theirs is for life.

The pet hate that makes your hackles rise...The ingratitude shown by some young people to the incredible education they are given in this country. The film you can watch time and time again... Casablanca is a gem – its classic lines give me goose bumps.

The person who has influenced you most...My father Geoffrey, who managed a touring repertory company in India where we lived until I was 20. I acted in his productions throughout my childhood, which was the most phenomenal education. He was a maverick with a huge personality.

The figure from history for whom you’d most like to buy a pie and a pint...I don’t drink ale, but I would to meet Shakespeare. Nothing matches his work.

The piece of wisdom you would pass on to a child...Be brave and travel the world. Seeing different cultures will give you a greater perspective on life.

The unlikely interest that engages your curiosity...The teachings of Native Americans are based on the rules of nature and can teach you so much.

The treasured item you lost and wish you could have again...My mother Laura’s gold bangles. They mysteriously vanished from her body after she died of a broken heart, following my sister’s death.

The unending quest that drives you on...To write a novel. I got halfway through one eight years ago.

The poem that touches your soul...To His Coy Mistress by Andrew Marvell. It’s beautiful, passionate and sexy. The message is not to waste your life.

The misapprehension about yourself you wish you could erase...That I’m nice and easy-going. The Good Life portrayed me as sweetness and light, but I can be short-tempered and difficult. People are taken aback if they see that dark side. Sorry to destroy the illusion!

The event that altered the course of your life and character...The divorce from my first husband [Drewe Henley, in 1976, after seven years] created my darker side. Until then, I’d been naive.

The crime you would commit knowing you could get away with it...I’d incarcerate child abusers in an awful place. The song that means most to you... Sunny by Stevie Wonder. It tells you sadness can become something else.

The happiest moment you will cherish forever...Working at the National Theatre in 1979 with director Peter Hall on four plays, beginning with Amadeus. I’d achieved my dream.

The saddest time that shook your world...My sister Jennifer was the absolute star of our family and held us together. Seeing her suffer and her three children lose their mother was awful.

The unfulfilled ambition that haunts you...To speak Italian. I’ve been learning for ten years, but I can still only understand it. My laziness is to blame.

The philosophy that underpins your life...Family. Friends. Loyalty. And be generous.

The order of service at your funeral...I converted to Judaism for my second marriage, which means the service is rigid, but I wish everyone could have a glass of champagne or a vodka martini before the funeral! I’d want a party atmosphere with jokes, jazz and Somewhere Over The Rainbow by the late Hawaiian singer Israel Kamakawiwo’ole. I’d like to be buried in my garden in the country, but I think it’s against the law. Maybe that’s a crime I could commit!

The way you want to be remembered...For a long time and for being great fun!

The Plug...Felicity’s documentary on William Shakespeare’s plays in India will be shown on the BBC in April.  

 

Actress Felicity Kendal

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Published: 4 February 2012

Actor Simon Callow:

The prized possession you value above all others...A gold ring that belonged to the great Irish actor Micheál Mac Liammóir. I was his dresser in Northern Ireland in 1968. He left it to his partner, who left it to an actor, who gave it to me. It connects me to a theatrical past.

The unqualified regret you wish you could amend...I cut off relations with my grandmother Vera for six years when I was 18. She was the most powerful influence in my life, but it was overwhelming so I had to stand back. I now deeply regret those missing years.

The way you’d spend your fantasy 24 hours, with no travel restrictions...I’d have breakfast in Zambia’s Luangwa Valley as crocodiles eat their breakfast in the river; coffee and madeleines on Venice’s Lido island; lunch in Stockholm; tea at London’s Maison Bertaux; dinner on the island of Mykonos; vodka and caviar in St Petersburg; and bed at the Gazelle d’Or hotel in Morocco.

The temptation you wish you could resist...Oh, I can resist anything. Although bread is a weakness.

The book that holds an everlasting resonance...Plato’s Symposium. It introduced me to my hero, Socrates, who taught me how to think.

The priority activity if you were the Invisible Man for a day...I would terrorise stupid and cruel dog owners.

The pet hate that makes your hackles rise... The use of the verb ‘pop’ as a substitute for any other word. A nurse once said to me, ‘Pop your clothes off. I’m just going to pop a little injection into your arm then I’ll pop off to get the doctor.’ I’ve become an anti-pop commissar and correct people all the time. I become quite deranged – but I’m right.

The film you can watch time and time again...The French film Les Enfants Du Paradis – the most poetic representation of the destructive power of love.

The person who has influenced you most...Christopher Fettes, my drama teacher. His vision and ideas made me the man, and the actor, I am today.

The figure from history for whom you’d most like to buy a pie and a pint...Charles Dickens. Being in his company would be a tonic and a joy. The conversation would surge with electric energy.

The piece of wisdom you would pass on to a child...Whenever you’ve a free moment, run, jump, swim, kick a ball, dress up, climb a tree, learn a song.

Avoid anything operated by electricity.

The unlikely interest that engages your curiosity...I am fascinated by rubbish bins – their size, shape, efficiency, colour, and their maintenance.

The treasured item you lost and wish you could have again...My grandmother’s gold lorgnette [a pair of spectacles mounted on a handle]. As a child I used to play with it endlessly, pretending to be various marquises and marchionesses. I have absolutely no idea what became of it.

The unending quest that drives you on...To give a really good performance, to write a perfect sentence, to direct a superb production. None has been achieved so far.

The poem that touches your soul...Shakespeare’s sonnet No. 49, about the anguish of love. The last couplet – ‘To leave poor me thou hast the strength of laws, Since why to love I can allege no cause’ – is the most devastating in the English language. I’ve been there.

The misapprehension about yourself you wish you could erase...That I am Simon Cowell. Or that he is me.

The event that altered the course of your life and character...My father leaving my mother when I was 18 months old. It shattered her and made her harder. She tried to be my mother and father, which was oppressive for a child.

The crime you would commit knowing you could get away with it...I would steal Bronzino’s Portrait Of A Young Man from New York’s Metropolitan Museum of Art and feast on its enigmatic beauty in solitude.

The song that means the most to you...Offrande, by the Venezuelan-born com poser Reynaldo Hahn. He catches the tenderness of the gift of love with astonishing vulnerability.

The happiest moment you will cherish forever...Getting my first commission as a writer in 1984 for my memoir Being An Actor. I was in Santa Fe, in the US, and I went up in a balloon and shouted the news to the surprised birds.

The saddest time that shook your world...The death in 1991 of my friend Peggy Ramsay, a legendary theatrical agent, left a gap in my world that will never be filled again.

The unfulfilled ambition that continues to haunt you...I’ve never acted professionally in plays by Chekhov, Ibsen, Congreve, Feydeau or Stoppard.

The philosophy that underpins your life...Make the negative positive.

The order of service at your funeral...I would want some Shakespeare sonnets – maybe Nos. 29 and 60 – and Mahler’s Der Abschied from Das Lied Von Der Erde. Then Cole Porter’s In The Still Of The Night, Mozart’s Vorrei Spiegarvi and the last movement of Elgar’s Cello Concerto.

The way you want to be remembered...A rough beast who constantly struggled to do something dainty.

The Plug...My book, Charles Dickens And The Great Theatre Of The World, is published by HarperPress, priced £16.99. Visit www.simoncallow.com

 

Actor Simon Callow

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Published: 28 January 2012

Dynasty star Stephanie Beacham:

 

The prized possession you value above all others...My freedom. I’m from the first generation of women who’ve been free to choose. The buck stops with me.

The unqualified regret you wish you could amend...Saying ‘That’s a daft idea’ in 1986 when I was invited to invest in a little coffee shop business. It went on to become Starbucks! If I’d gone for it I’d be super-rich now. I’m furious with myself.
The way you would spend your fantasy 24 hours, with no travel restrictions...I’d spend all day with my boyfriend Bernie [Greenwood, a doctor]. We’d start with a dawn walk in the Himalayas, then breakfast in Katmandu. I’d have a yoga lesson in Goa, southern India, then a swim in the Maldives. After lunch at the Plaza Athénée Hotel in Paris, we’d look at the impressionist paintings in the Musée d’Orsay before heading to Broadway in New York for the hottest show in town. Dinner would be at the city’s Upstairs At 21, and I’d end the day walking on the beach with my dogs by my home in Malibu.

The temptation you wish you could resist...Saying ‘Yes’, when I should say ‘No’. All too often I overload myself and leave people short-changed.

The book that holds an everlasting resonance...Autobiography Of A Yogi by Paramahansa Yogananda. It’s
about his journey to meet holy people and has a spiritually magical quality.

The priority activity if you were the Invisible Woman for a day...I’d go to No.10 and listen to the rationale behind the rubbish our leaders tell us.

The pet hate that makes your hackles rise...People eating while they’re talking to me on the telephone. Finish eating, then call me! The only chomping sound I can bear is when my dogs eat.

The film you can watch time and time again...All About Eve with Bette Davis. It has so many great lines.

The person who has influenced you most...My mother, Joan. She taught me so much, particularly the importance of  posture and  manners.

The figure from history for whom you’d most like to buy a pie and a pint...The great US economist J.K. Galbraith, who could explain to me what’s going on with the world’s banks.

The piece of wisdom you would pass on to a child...Write thank-you letters. Children are given so much these days, yet politeness seems to be forgotten.

The unlikely interest that engages your curiosity...I’m obsessed with miniature things. I have two fully furnished doll’s houses and now have thousands of objects for them.

The treasured item you lost and wish you could have again...My grandmother’s beautiful 19th-century jade ring, which was stolen at a New York hotel in 1997. I’ve had entire jewellery collections wiped out in two burglaries, but that ring was particularly special.

The unending quest that drives you on...The truth. Just give me the truth and I’ll be able to deal with it.

The poem that touches your soul...The hymn God Be In My Head from 1558 has been with me all through my life. It’s beautiful and the words are so true.

The misapprehension about yourself you wish you could erase...That I’m snooty. I’m not, I’m just deaf! I’ve been deaf in my right ear since birth and only have 80 per cent hearing in my left. People sometimes call out to me and I walk by because I haven’t heard  them, not because I’m ignoring them.

The event that altered the course of your life and character...Being cast in Dynasty in 1985 took me to America and changed everything. It also brought Joan Collins into my life. I’ve always admired her hugely.

The crime you would commit knowing you could get away with it...I’d put David Cameron in the stocks for a day, so people could tell him what they think. I’m so angry that our politicians don’t listen. Don’t make us rise up like the Arab countries so we can be heard.

The song that means most to you...Forever by English folk duo Turin Brakes. It’s so romantic and I think of it as mine and Bernie’s song.

The happiest moment you will cherish forever...Working with Ava Gardner in 1970 on The Ballad Of Tam Lin, my first major movie. She was fabulous.

The saddest time that shook your world...Two friends committing suicide shook me greatly. I find the tragedies so hard to reconcile and wish I’d paid more attention in both instances.

The unfulfilled ambition that continues to haunt you...I’d like to make a great movie that people remember.

The philosophy that underpins your life...Good, better, best… Never let it rest until the good is better and the
better best.

The order of service at your funeral...I want my daughters, Phoebe and Chloe, to scatter my ashes in ten of my favourite destinations around the world so they can experience each place. I’ve already bought a burial plot in Dunster, Somerset, next to Mummy and Daddy, so I’d like my headstone and a pinch of ash there.

The way you want to be remembered...As a good mother, a fun friend and a talented actress.

The Plug...Stephanie Beacham and Joan Collins are reunited in Snickers’ new ad campaign, ‘You’re not you when you’re hungry’. www.snickers.com

 

 

Dynasty Star Stephanie Beacham

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Published: 21 January 2012

War hero Simon Weston:

The prized possession you value above all others...I value old photographs, particularly one of me at home in Wales with my family and Carlos Cachon – the Argentinian pilot who blew me up [Carlos fired the missile at the troop carrier Simon was on during the Falklands War in 1982]. Since we first met in 1991, he’s become a very good friend. I have huge respect for him and bear him no malice.  

The unqualified regret you wish you could amend...Embarrassing my mum, Pauline, when I was 14 by getting caught in a stolen car.

I feel ashamed at the distress I caused her. I got a £30 fine and three months’ probation for being a passenger. As a result, I joined the Army to get some direction in my life.

The way you would spend your fantasy 24 hours, with no travel restrictions...I’d see the Boston Red Sox baseball team win the World Series at their home ground, Fenway Park, then Wales win the Rugby World Cup in New Zealand. I’d go to Wembley to watch Manchester United beat Manchester City in the Champions League final, then end the day in Las Vegas watching the Welsh boxer Nathan Cleverly win a world title fight. I’d love my wife Lucy and our children [James, 20, Stuart, 18, and Caitlin, 14] to join me for the whole trip – but I’m not sure they’d want to!

The temptation you wish you could resist...Always wanting the last word!

The book that holds an everlasting resonance...I love Bernard Cornwell’s Sharpe novels about the Napoleonic wars. They’re so rich in detail.

The priority activity if you were the Invisible Man for a day...I’d go to Iran to see what that lunatic Mahmoud Ahmadinejad is really up to.

The pet hate that makes your hackles rise...When our politicians re-announce old policies as if we’re too stupid to notice there’s nothing new.

The film you can watch time and time again...The Lord Of The Rings trilogy. I love the underlying message that if you have enough courage, even the smallest person can make a difference.

The person who has influenced you most...The TV director Malcolm Brinkworth, who made the Simon’s War documentary about my recovery after the Falklands. It brought my story to the world and changed my life. He has made five other programmes about me since then and is like a brother.

The figure from history for whom you’d most like to buy a pie and a pint...Adolf Hitler’s father, Alois. He crushed his son’s dreams of being an artist, and look what happened! I’d tell him you should always nurture children’s dreams.

The piece of wisdom you would pass on to a child...Keep your excitement for everything new all through your life.

The unlikely interest that engages your curiosity... I collect little pewter soldiers designed by Charles Stadden. My first one was given to me after I was blown up and I now have 18.

The treasured item you lost and wish you could have again...The wallet I was carrying when the missile hit. Inside was a photo of my niece, a gold St Christopher from my mum and some poker dice, plus £200 I’d won at poker!

The unending quest that drives you on...To be successful at everything I do.

The poem that touches your soul...Tommy by Rudyard Kipling. It sums up the frustration and despair a soldier can feel when he’s not appreciated.

The misapprehension about yourself you wish you could erase...That I do everything for charity! I have a family, so there’s a limit to what I can do for free.

The event that altered the course of your life and character...The moment my ship was hit. I survived while some of my dearest friends died. In many ways, it was the best thing that happened to me – look at the life I’ve led since then.

The crime you would commit knowing you could get away with it...I would plunder every penny from the bankers who got our country into such a mess and see how they cope with poverty.

The song that means most to you...The Home Fire by Louis Armstrong, about a man’s joy to be heading home. I love travelling but there’s nothing better than being home with my family.

The happiest moment you will cherish forever...Getting my OBE from the Queen in 1992. It made me and, more importantly, my mother proud.

The saddest time that shook your world...During the same week in 1994 my grandfather Percy and my father Lofty died. I worshipped both of them.

The unfulfilled ambition that continues to haunt you...To have played high-level rugby. One club was prepared to buy me out of the Army to play for them before I was wounded, but I’ll never know how good I could have been.

The philosophy that underpins your life...Never let anyone write you off – and never write yourself off.

The order of service at your funeral...I’m not interested in a fanfare. I’ll leave some money behind the bar at the Nelson Rugby Club in mid-Glamorgan. If anyone turns up, maybe they can play some Thin Lizzy songs.

The way you want to be remembered...He did his best for everyone.

The Plug... Simon’s third children’s book, Nelson At Sea, is published by Pont Books, priced £8.99. For details of his motivational speaking visit www.simonweston.com.

 

 

War Hero Simon Weston

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Published: 14 January 2012

Chef Marco-Pierre White:

The prized possession you value above all others...A lock of hair from my ten-year-old daughter Mirabelle. It was cut when she was three.

The unqualified regret you wish you could amend...I have no regrets because my mistakes have given me the knowledge that has made me the man I am today. Regrets are anchors that drag you back.  

The way you would spend your fantasy 24 hours, with no travel restrictions...The only place I’d want to be is in the British countryside. I would go fishing or deerstalking, then home to spend time with my children [Marco also has Luciano, 18, and Marco Jnr, 16]. I’m a private person and hardly ever go to big parties, so I’d be happy staying in and having a long hot bath.

The temptation you wish you could resist...I blinker out the normal temptations because they take me away from work. I’m totally obsessed with starting new ventures – like pubs or restaurants – so you could say that’s my temptation. But I’m happy not to resist.

The book that holds an everlasting resonance...Ma Gastronomie by Fernand Point. He is the father of modern French cuisine. One of his mantras always stays with me: ‘Perfection is lots of little things done well.’

The priority activity if you were the Invisible Man for a day...I’d watch the staff in all of my businesses and give them a real fright if they did something I didn’t like.

The pet hate that makes your hackles rise...Lack of attention to detail. Detail is vital and is the difference between success and failure, but sadly not everyone has the same eye as me.

The film you can watch time and time again...The Big Blue starring Jean- Marc Barr is a beautiful film about free diving in the sea. I love the metaphorical thread about life and death.

The person who has influenced you most...My mother, Maria-Rosa. She died from a brain haemorrhage in 1968 when I was six. She’d already instilled in me the importance of being honourable. Losing her was the fuel that drove me to succeed and gave me the need to be accepted. I think every boy should build a monument to his mother.

The figure from history for whom you’d most like to buy a pie and a pint...I’d like to sit at a bar with Dean Martin, but we’d need more than a pint! He was the coolest guy who ever lived.

The piece of wisdom you would pass on to a child...Never trust a lazy person. Anyone who is lazy at work or lazy about life will let you down.

The unlikely interest that engages your curiosity...Nature. It’s like a surrogate mother to me and it teaches you everything you need to know.

The treasured item you lost and wish you could have again...My restaurant in Mayfair called Mirabelle, which I sold in 2009. It was close to my heart.

The unending quest that drives you on...To find peace.

The poem that touches your soul...If by Rudyard Kipling. I love the way he asserts that it’s every man’s duty to stand up and be a man.

The misapprehension about yourself you wish you could erase...People think of me as a maverick, a real hotheaded enfant terrible. But I’m actually highly concentrated, disciplined, softmannered and incredibly patient. But why would I want to change the perception? It hasn’t done me any harm.

The event that altered the course of your life and character...The death of my mother. Not a day goes by that I don’t think about her.

The crime you would commit knowing you could get away with it...My conscience would not be able to live with it. I was brought up to respect people

The song that means most to you...I Wan’na Be Like You, by the orangutan King Louie in The Jungle Book, makes me smile like nothing else.

The happiest moment you will cherish forever...I turned 50 on 11 December, and went to see my daughter dance as the Sugar Plum Fairy in The Nutcracker at the Bloomsbury Theatre. Tears of joy streamed down my face.

The saddest time that shook your world...The moment my mother collapsed and died at our council house in Leeds. I watched as she was carried on a stretcher to an ambulance with a red blanket over her. The doors closed and that was the last time I saw her.

The unfulfilled ambition that continues to haunt you...I have fulfilled so many ambitions during my career with my restaurants and Michelin stars. I could never commit myself emotionally again to reach the same heights, but I am content with that. As the ancient military commander Hannibal said before his last battle, ‘Let us dress for war, when all I want is peace.’

The philosophy that underpins your life...A tree without roots is just a piece of wood.

The order of service at your funeral...I am too busy living my life for today and being a free spirit to think about such things. I believe once you’re gone, that’s it. I’ll let my children decide how they want to say their farewell.

The way you want to be remembered...As a kind and loving person who gave more than he took.

The Plug...Marco’s pub, The Hansom Cab in Kensington, recently won two rosettes from the AA Pub Guide. For bookings, call 020 7938 3700 or visit www.thehansomcab.com.

 

Chef Marco-Pierre White

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Published: 7 January 2012

Interior designer Nicky Haslam:

The prized possession you value above all others...A fan letter I received from interior designer Nancy Lancaster – an idol for every decorator – complimenting me on my work. It’s framed and I still flush with pride when I see it.

The unqualified regret you wish you could amend...Not being with the love of my life. I won’t name him here, but we were together for 12 years, then he broke it off. That was 20 years ago and I haven’t found another true love since.

The way you would spend your fantasy 24 hours, with no travel restrictions...I’d spend all day with the adorable Russian model Natalia Vodianova. We’d have breakfast sailing down the Bosphorus in Istanbul, then head to the mountains of Transylvania for a picnic – we’d travel by hay cart and wear gypsy clothes. Later we’d attend a party in Rome thrown by the fashion designer Valentino, then fly by private jet to my home in Hampshire for Old Fashioned cocktails by the open fire.

The temptation you wish you could resist...Reading late into the night. I promise myself I’ll only read for a few minutes, then suddenly it’s 2am.

The book that holds an everlasting resonance...Sybille Bedford is the greatest writer I’ve ever read. Her first novel, A Legacy, is so redolent of the past and has such beautiful language.

The priority activity if you were the Invisible Man for a day...I’d follow a collection of friends and strangers to see what they get up to at night.

The pet hate that makes your hackles rise...Mary Portas. Ugh! She’s just awful. That smile, the terrible hair and that commanding voice and arch attitude. She’s holier than thou and so pleased with herself, yet talks utter rubbish, and in clichés. I only have to hear her voice and my teeth go on edge.

The film you can watch time and time again...Ziegfeld Follies with Fred Astaire and Judy Garland from 1946. I only watch films for the costumes and sets, and this one’s extraordinary. I’ve watched it at least 300 times.

The person who has influenced you most...Lady Diana Cooper, the actress and society beauty, whom I met when I was 16. She taught me how to make life enchanting, rather than a drudge.

The figure from history for whom you’d most like to buy a pie and a pint...Wallis Simpson, the Duchess of Windsor. I met her about eight times in New York in the late 1960s. I’d like to know what really happened between her and the Duke.

The piece of wisdom you would pass on to a child...People are wrong to say life’s too short. I’d tell a child life’s as long as you want to make it. And you do that by making it interesting.

The unlikely interest that engages your curiosity...Lassoing cattle. I was a cowboy in Arizona for five years from 1966 and I’m pretty good at it.

The treasured item you lost and wish you could have again...The American actress Tallulah Bankhead gave me an original celluloid of the Wicked Fairy from Sleeping Beauty of 1959. I lent it to The Observer Film Exhibition later and it was never returned. I hear it is worth up to £4 million now, so if anyone knows where it is, do let me know.

The unending quest that drives you on...Curiosity. I’m forever interested in new things, so I never get bored.

The poem that touches your soul...I love an untitled poem by the 17th-century English writer Thomas Traherne. It feels as if he’s writing about my life, which is why it’s the epigram to my autobiography, Redeeming Features.

The misapprehension about yourself you wish you could erase...That I keep changing my image.

The event that altered the course of your life and character...Getting a job on Vogue magazine in New York in 1962. It was an amazing time and I met everyone – even Martin Luther King.

The crime you would commit knowing you could get away with it...I would steal the late artist Lucian Freud’s private collection of paintings at his house in London’s Notting Hill. I used to go there frequently and it’s a seamless panorama of beauty.

The song that means most to you...Street Of Dreams by Lee Wiley, an American chanteuse of the 40s and 50s. It always gives me goosebumps.

The happiest moment you will cherish forever...A magical night I spent on the island of Elba in 1990 with the lost love I mentioned earlier.

The saddest time that shook your world...Getting polio when I was seven. I was in a cast for three years and feared I’d never walk again, but I recovered. The good news was I didn’t have to do national service.

The unfulfilled ambition that continues to haunt you...To create a scent, but it costs at least £7 million.

The philosophy that underpins your life...Diana Cooper instilled in me to always say yes to an invitation.

The order of service at your funeral...I’d want the Eton College choir to sing Abide With Me, which always makes me cry. Hopefully, Tom Stoppard would do the address and then I’d love everyone to do a waltz.

The way you want to be remembered...Just to be remembered would be a coup.

The Plug...Find out about Nicky’s design work and his new range of fabrics at www.nh-design.co.uk

 

Interior Designer Nicky Haslam

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Published: 31 December 2011

Hynoptist Paul McKenna:

The event that altered the course of your life and character...

Reading the book Trance-Formations by John Grinder and Richard Bandler in 1993. Back then, I was a radio DJ, but that book taught me about hypnosis and totally altered my destiny.

The crime you would commit knowing you could get away with it...

You might get away with it in the eyes of the law, but you still have to live with yourself, so have you really got away with it?

The song that means most to you...

Donny Hathaway’s version of Leon Russell’s Song For You. It’s about a man taking stock of his life and realising love and friends are what are most important. I’ve had a similar realisation in recent years. Success is great, but people are the key to a happy life.

The happiest moment you will cherish forever...

A Zen master friend of mine called Genpo Merzel has developed a fast-track meditation technique called ‘Big Mind’. I do this every day and experience extraordinary bliss.

The saddest time that shook your world...

My father died suddenly last March, which was very sad and tough for me. He was good, honest, dignified, generous and charismatic, and made everyone around him feel good.

The unfulfilled ambition that continues to haunt you...

To star as James Bond.

The philosophy that underpins your life...

How much pleasure is it possible for a human being to stand?

The order of service at your funeral...

I want to be cremated and laid to rest next to my dad. To lift the mood I’d have the Benny Hill theme tune Yakety Sax playing as the coffin goes into the cremation chamber. Then I’d lay on champagne and have friends telling stories about me.

The way you want to be remembered...

In the Sultan of Brunei’s will!

Paul’s new book I Can Make You Smarter is out on Thursday (Bantam Press, £10.99). Visit www.paulmckenna.com. 

 

Hynoptist Paul McKenna

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Published: 17 December 2011

Choirmaster Gareth Malone:

The prized possession you value above all others...A pair of cufflinks given to me when I was granted the Freedom of the City of London last year in recognition of my music educational work in the capital.

The unqualified regret you wish you could amend...I wish I’d sung in a cathedral choir when I was a young boy. I had a chance to be in my local church choir but was too busy with Scouts, sport and learning the piano.  

The way you would spend your fantasy 24 hours, with no travel restrictions...I’d have breakfast with my wife Becky and our baby, Esther, at LA’s Beverly Hills Hotel. We’d organise childcare for Esther and have a walk in the Scottish Grampians, followed by lunch in Saint-Emilion in south-west France with a fine bottle of wine. I’d sleep it off on a beach in Sicily, then look at Holbein’s paintings in the National Portrait Gallery. Afterwards I’d put Esther to bed, listen to Mahler’s 2nd Symphony at London’s Barbican Centre and finish with a pub dinner with friends.

The temptation you wish you could resist...I love strong, fetid cheeses, the type that whimper in the corner of a room. A favourite is Brie de Meaux.

The book that holds an everlasting resonance...Shakespeare’s play Henry V is a great story of leadership. I love the St Crispin’s Day speech and even have the film with Kenneth Branagh as Henry on my iPhone. If I’m having a bad day, I watch a bit to inspire me.

The priority activity if you were the Invisible Man for a day...I’d sit in the Cabinet room to watch how our politicians decide important matters.

The pet hate that always gets your back up...I can’t stand rudeness. Unfortunately, I can’t help being rude back!

The film you can watch time and time again...Return Of The Jedi. It sparked my Stars Wars obsession. I’ve seen the first three films at least 30 times – each. I love the heroic story of good triumphing over evil.

The person who has influenced you most...Richard McNicol, my mentor when I was with the London Symphony Orchestra. He told me, ‘If you expect children to do something and give them the chance, they will rise to it and never let you down.’

The figure from history for whom you’d most like to buy a pie and a pint...The 16th-century German priest Martin Luther. He was a revolutionary who wrote hymns and incorporated music into religion for the people.

The piece of wisdom you would pass on to a child...Always strive to be your best self rather than being negative.

The unlikely interest that engages your curiosity...I did clay pigeon shooting this year and loved it so much that I’m going to take it up.

The treasured item you lost and wish you could have again...I’ve lost about 30 watches. I only buy cheap ones now as I know I won’t own them for long.

The unending quest that drives you on...To attain perfection in music, but I know it’s not achievable. It’s the elusive nature of perfection that drives me on to the next performance.

The poem that touches your soul...The hymn Eternal Father, Strong To Save. We used to sing it at school on Remembrance Day. It’s about asking God for help in times of great trouble.

The misapprehension about yourself you wish you could erase...That I’m a bit of a girly nerd. I’m a bit more rounded than that – I think!

The event that altered the course of your life and character...I did some terrible jobs in the summer holidays after my GCSEs. One was selling ice creams on Bournemouth beach. My boss made me pick up cigarette ends in the sand, and I knew then that I wanted more out of life, so I threw myself into everything at school. I ended up getting two As and a B in my A-levels.

The crime you would commit knowing you could get away with it...I’d rig a cashpoint to dispense endless cash.

The song that means most to you...Yesterday by The Beatles, but this could be replaced by my new single, Wherever You Are by the Military Wives’ Choir. It’s a powerful anthem and the source of so much personal pride.

The happiest moment you will cherish forever...The day I got a scholarship to the Royal Academy of Music.

The saddest time that shook your world...The death of my grandmother Patricia was incredibly upsetting. She was an inspiring, witty, incisive character and I wanted to be like her.

The unfulfilled ambition that continues to haunt you...To sing professionally at La Scala in Milan.

The philosophy that underpins your life...Music is life.

The order of service at your funeral...I’d be brought in to the sombre Thou Knowest Lord The Secrets Of Our Hearts by Purcell and end on a jolly note with Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go by Wham! I’d also like a wake with great red wine and a singsong.

The way you want to be remembered...I’d like people to listen to some music and say, ‘Gareth introduced me to this…’ That would be a great epitaph.

The Plug...Wherever You Are by the Military Wives’ Choir is released on 19 December. It’s already available to pre-order. Help it beat X Factor to be the Christmas Number One.

 

 

Choirmaster Gareth Malone

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Published: 10 December 2011

Comedienne Ronni Ancona:

The prized possession you value above all others...A ballet shoe worn by Anna Pavlova. It was given to my great-grandmother three years after Anna died in 1931, by Anna’s husband Victor Dandré. My mum gave it to me and I will hand it on to my daughters.

The unqualified regret you wish you could amend...I hardly know where to start! But I wish I could play an instrument well, especially piano or guitar.

The way you would spend your fantasy 24 hours, with no travel restrictions...I’d have breakfast with my husband Gerard, looking at Mount Etna from Taormina in southern Italy. Then we’d go to the Marquesas Islands in the South Pacific with our children – Lily, six, and Elsa, three. I’d watch the wildlife at the Ngorongoro Crater in Tanzania, then have dinner in Manhattan. I’d do a sketch on Saturday Night Live, then zip home to London.

The temptation you wish you could resist...Champagne. Any brand will do – I’m too chavvy to care.

The book that holds an everlasting resonance...Madame Bovary by Gustave Flaubert. It is beautifully written and the characters reach across time.

The priority activity if you were the Invisible Woman for a day...I’d hitch a ride on a rocket to the Moon.

The life of another with whom you would gladly trade places...Aretha Franklin. To be able to sing with that degree of power is the ultimate skill.

The film you can watch time and time again...All About Eve is magnificent. The screenplay is sharp and witty and the performances are exemplary, especially Bette Davis, who’s on top form.

The person who has influenced you most...Dustin Hoffman, who’s been my hero since I was about eight. I was an oddball as a kid, and when I saw him in Little Big Man I related to him, as he was so vulnerable and off-beat.

The figure from history for whom you’d most like to buy a pie and a pint...Eleanor of Aquitaine, who was queen consort of both France and England in the 12th century. She had an extraordinary life, so I’d love a good natter with her.

The piece of wisdom you would pass on to a child...It’s what’s inside that counts. My daughters are bombarded with images of gorgeous women on TV, so I want them to know that kindness shines out, regardless of how people look.

The unlikely interest that engages your curiosity...Elephants fascinate me; they look as if they belong to another world. I’ve been collecting little figures of elephants since I was a child and I have about 70 now.

The treasured item you lost and wish you could have again...My peace of mind. Having kids makes you worry more, but makes you less self-centred.

The unending quest that drives you on...To be the best I can be. I’m quite tough on myself and always fear I don’t come up to the mark.

The poem that touches your soul...The Stolen Child by WB Yeats has a deep personal resonance. My baby son Seth was stillborn in 2006 and I read the poem at his funeral. When you suffer a loss of that magnitude you like to think they are a little angel somewhere. The essence of the poem is that fairies exist and they protect children from the ills of the world.

The misapprehension about yourself you wish you could erase...That I’m just an impressionist. I’m an actress and comedienne who also does silly voices!

The event that altered the course of your life and character...Winning the Time Out Hackney Empire New Act of the Year award in 1993 allowed me to go into comedy professionally.

The crime you would commit knowing you could get away with it...I am appalled at the money footballers and bankers earn, so I’d find a way to give their wealth to people who need it.

The song that means most to you...Born Free. I named Elsa after the lion cub from the film. It’s a wonderful ode to doing your own thing in life. I want that for both my girls.

The happiest moment you will cherish forever...My wedding day at the Oliver Messel suite at the Dorchester hotel in Mayfair. I never thought I’d get married so it was all a nice shock.

The saddest time that shook your world...Losing my little baby boy broke my heart.

The unfulfilled ambition that continues to haunt you...To deliver a great comedic performance, full of pathos, in a film that would make people laugh and cry. It’s a pipe dream because Hollywood has no end of kooky, young, beautiful actresses.

The philosophy that underpins your life...Success through chaos.

The order of service at your funeral...I’d lay on some champagne and have a bit of a circus – sad and funny. I suppose it would be a good time for Alistair McGowan to do his terrible impression of me. He does this hideously squawking Scottish accent with his arm flapping up and down.

The way you want to be remembered...As a woman who wasn’t all there – but wanted to be!

The Plug...I’m supporting the Kleenex Balsam Coldline, by offering soothing words of sympathy in the voices of some of Britain’s biggest celebrities. To listen, call free on: 0808 265 3358.

 

Comedienne Ronni Ancona

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Published: 3 December 2011

Legendary Des O’Connor:

The prized possession you value above all others...My collection of books and photographs autographed with kind messages to me by all the stars I’ve met, from Bob Hope and George Burns to Celine Dion. It’s irreplaceable.

The unqualified regret you wish you could amend...You do a lot of damage if you live in the past, so I believe in living for the future. It’s better to view mistakes and missed opportunities as lessons learnt, rather than regrets.

The way you would spend your fantasy 24 hours, with no travel restrictions...I love Australia, so I’d take a boat trip around Sydney Harbour with my wife Jodie and our son Adam, who’s seven. We’d then spend all day in the sun on Bondi beach, with a light snack for lunch and a cool lager. In the evening, Jodie and I would head to Las Vegas to watch a great show. I gave up gambling 20 years ago so I won’t even have a bet. We’d have dinner at a fine restaurant in London, then enjoy the magic of the London night from Waterloo Bridge.

The temptation you wish you could resist...I think Oscar Wilde got it right when he said, ‘I can resist everything except temptation.’ I have to look after myself – I’m 80 next year – so I’m quite disciplined about what I eat and drink, but I don’t believe in entirely denying myself the pleasures of life.

The book that holds an everlasting resonance...I read Treasure Island when I was ten and it fired my appetite for adventure and reading.

The priority activity if you were the Invisible Man for a day...I’d hire a Boris Bike and cycle up and down Oxford Street at Christmas. That would get a few looks and laughs.

The life of another with whom you would gladly trade places...I’m a sport nut, so I’d love to be a top sports presenter who covers all the major events around the world.

The film you can watch time and time again...I’ve seen Jacques Tati’s 1953 classic Monsieur Hulot’s Holiday about ten times, and always find something new to laugh at. It’s full of wonderful comic observations.

The person who has influenced you most...My father Harry. He made me realise the power of humour, particularly in difficult times. He died about 20 years ago but is still with me in spirit, and I chat to him occasionally.

The figure from history for whom you’d most like to buy a pie and a
pint..
.
I would like to talk to Winston Churchill about everything!

The piece of wisdom you would pass on to a child...Be loving. Be helpful. Share laughter and respect others’ feelings.

The unlikely interest that engages your curiosity...I’m far too busy with family and work to have one. What use would
I be to my young son if I was collecting stamps or digging the garden?

The treasured item you lost and wish you could have again...Material things don’t matter to me. A friend once questioned that belief, and I proved it by dropping my new, limited-edition gold zodiac medallion down a drain!

The unending quest that drives you on...Remaining enthusiastic about the challenges and opportunities life offers is more than enough to drive me on.

The poem that touches your soul...I’ve always struggled to engage with what poetry is trying to convey. I’m more interested in writing my own comic poems than reading what someone else is feeling as they walk through the daffodils.

The misapprehension about yourself you wish you could erase...That I can’t sing! Morecambe and Wise’s jokes convinced people I couldn’t. It was all good fun, but people still believe it.

The event that altered the course of your life and character...My home in the East End received a direct hit during the Blitz when I was eight, and my mum Maude, sister Pat and I were buried under the rubble for four hours. We were rescued and my dad raced home from work on a bicycle and cuddled us. My mum said, ‘We’ve lost everything’ and he said, ‘No we haven’t. Everything that matters is here.’ That sentiment’s stayed with me all my life.

The crime you would commit knowing you could get away with it...I couldn’t be bothered with crime at my time of life; my conscience wouldn’t enjoy it.

The song that means most to you...Begin The Beguine by Cole Porter has the most romantic lyrics ever.

The saddest time that shook your world...The loss of my father and mother. I still miss being able to share
the highs of my life with them.

The unfulfilled ambition that continues to haunt you...I’ve never made a movie, so, if there are any casting directors out there reading this…

The philosophy that underpins your life... I treat everyone with kindness and respect, and I always feel good if I’ve brightened someone’s day.

The order of service at your funeral...I don’t want tears and sadness. Let’s just have Dick-A-Dum-Dum [Des’s hit from 1969] played non-stop, then smile and only think of the good times.

The way you want to be remembered...If people just remember that I was around, that’ll be enough.

The Plug...Des stars in the hit musical Dreamboats And Petticoats at London’s Playhouse Theatre. Tel: 0844 871 7631 or visit www.kenwright.com.

 

Legendary Entertainer Des O’Connor

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Published: 26 November 2011

Chef Jean-Christophe Novelli:

The prized possession you value above all others...The gold St Christopher my father Jean gave me when I was nine for my first communion. I never take it off.

The unqualified regret you wish you could amend...Smoking. I started when I was 16 and was smoking 40 Gitanes a day when I gave up in 2001. I feel ashamed by it. I only gave up when I asked my daughter Christina what she wanted for Christmas and she said, ‘For you to stop smoking.’ I stopped the next day.

The way you would spend your fantasy 24 hours, with no travel restrictions...My professional life is a bombardment of noise and stress, so I’d drive to the mountains of Austria with my fiancée Michelle and our three-year-old son Jean-Frank.

We’d have a packed lunch of sandwiches and ride bikes and walk. I’d also go to Cumbria to swim in the lakes. That water makes you feel alive.

The temptation you wish you could resist...Strong black coffee with no sugar. I have six to eight cups a day and I’m told it’s bad for me, but any day that starts without coffee is ruined!

The book that holds an everlasting resonance...On Food And Cooking: The Science And Lore Of The Kitchen, by Harold McGee, has the core knowledge anyone needs to enjoy cooking.

The priority activity if you were the Invisible Man for a day...To have been in the changing room at Old Trafford after Man Utd were beaten 6-1 by Man City in October to see how Alex Ferguson really coped with that defeat!

The life of another with whom you would gladly trade places...Dutch footballer Johan Cruyff. I was a good striker when I was younger and I dreamed of being him.

The film you can watch time and time again...I’ve hardly seen any films as I’ve always worked so hard. But the TV series Columbo helps me switch off.

The person who has influenced you most...My mother Monique. She’s 76 now, but had polio when she was four and has been disabled all her life. She’s never complained or shown any weakness, and she’s also an amazing cook, who inspired my love for food.

The figure from history for whom you’d most like to buy a pie and a
pint...
Georges-Jacques Danton, who was one of the architects of the French Revolution. What an achievement! I’d ask him how he made it happen.

The piece of wisdom you would pass on to a child...Learn how to give love and also how to embrace it.

The unlikely interest that engages your curiosity...Numbers. My father punished me by making me learn multiplication as a boy, but I ended up loving maths. To this day I’m brilliant at it.

The treasured item you lost and wish you could have again...My speed. Until I was 25 I was extremely fast and could have run in the 100m for France. I’m 50 now and age has slowed me down – but I’m still pretty quick.

The unending quest that drives you on...To please. I’m driven to make people happy with my cooking and teaching, but I’m very sensitive, which can be hard because you get hurt.

The poem that touches your soul...A few years ago Raymond Blanc gave me The Little Prince – a precious gift because Raymond is a hero of mine. I can appreciate the poetry of that story.

The misapprehension about yourself you wish you could erase...That I’m a flirt and a womaniser. It’s crazy nonsense and it annoys me because I’m actually a loyal and honest person.

The event that altered the course of your life and character...Leaving France for England at 22. I had a one-way ticket, spoke no English and my parents were worried – but they knew I had to do it to make something of myself.

The crime you would commit knowing you could get away with it...Intercept the Olympic torch and run with it for a few miles. It would be a great honour.

The song that means most to you...My daughter Christina is a singer and is about to release her first single, Concrete Angel. I was incredibly moved when I first heard it and I keep watching her video on YouTube.

The happiest moment you will cherish forever...Meeting Michelle six years ago was a coup de foudre – love at first sight. I met her at Luton airport, of all places, on the way to Dublin.

The saddest time that shook your world...My best friend died from a heart attack in 2008, aged 41. I’ve never cried so much. It broke my heart he never lived to see my son Jean-Frank.

The unfulfilled ambition that continues to haunt you...To play the piano.

The philosophy that underpins your life...The only way to succeed is to push yourself to extreme limits. And you must aim to express – not impress.

The order of service at your funeral...I’ll always be a Frenchman but I want to be buried in England. I’d like a respectful, happy service – that’s not an excuse for people to get drunk!

The way you want to be remembered...As someone who was tender, tasty and value for money, who reached his best before his sell-by date!

The Plug...Jean-Christophe will be at Taste Of Christmas in partnership with AEG at London’s ExCeL from 2-4 December.  Visit www.tasteofchristmas. com. Details of his cookery school are at www.jeanchristophenovelli.com.  

 

Chef Jean-Christophe Novelli

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Published: 19 November 2011

Olympic ice-skater Jayne Torvill:

The prized possession you value above all others...The Olympic gold medal I won (with Christopher Dean) in 1984 at Sarajevo. It’s a square shape instead of the normal round one and it’s attached to a bright orange ribbon.

The unqualified regret you wish you could amend...I don’t have any because I sincerely believe that things happen for a reason.

The way you would spend your fantasy 24 hours, with no travel restrictions...I love escaping to Australia, so I’d spend the morning on the beach at Noosa on Queensland’s Sunshine Coast with my husband, Phil, and our children Kieran, who is nine, and Jessica, five.

We’d have lunch at Bilson’s in Sydney, then I’d head off – alone! – to Dubai for some serious shopping. I’d have a Sundowner cocktail with a dear friend who lives in the South of France, then end the day in Hertfordshire at the Grove Hotel’s spa.

The temptation you wish you could resist...I love Jimmy Choo and Louboutin shoes and I have 50 pairs. Thankfully, I get lots free from my stylist working on Dancing On Ice.

The book that holds an everlasting resonance...Angela’s Ashes by Frank McCourt. I’m not an avid reader, but I couldn’t put it down. It managed to both move me and make me laugh.

The priority activity if you were the Invisible Woman for a day...I support Liverpool FC so I’d pop into the changing rooms after a match to see what happens, so to speak!

The life of another with whom you would gladly trade places...My daughter Jessica because it would be wonderful to have no cares in the world again, or any sense of time.

The film you can watch time and time again...The Sound Of Music. I watched it seven times at the cinema when it came out in 1965 when I was eight. I still love it.

The person who has influenced you most...Our skating coach Betty Callaway. She worked with Chris and I for about eight years and was like a surrogate mum. She guided us through everything and made us wise. She died this year and we were so sad.

The figure from history for whom you’d most like to buy a pie and a pint...I’d have a dance with Fred Astaire and a chat over a bottle of fine wine. What a phenomenal talent!

The piece of wisdom you would pass on to a child...Forget your worries and enjoy every moment of childhood.

The unlikely interest that engages your curiosity...I’m fascinated by boxing. I’m intrigued by the technique and have started sparring with my trainer in the gym.

The treasured item you lost and wish you could have again...I lost one of a pair of gold earrings shaped as iceskates while I was asleep on a coach. They were my lucky earrings – I even wore them at the Olympics. I had it replaced, but it never felt the same.

The unending quest that drives you on...My love for life keeps me going.

The poem that touches your soul...William Wordsworth’s I Wandered Lonely As A Cloud always touches me. I like its sense of freedom and heartfelt appreciation of nature.

The misapprehension about yourself you wish you could erase...That I’m married to Christopher Dean! There’s a whole world out there convinced we are husband and wife. Nothing I say seems to change that perception.

The event that altered the course of your life and character...Winning the Olympics in 1984 when I was 26 changed everything.

The crime you would commit knowing you could get away with it...I’d get away with speeding. I’ve been caught by cameras a few times recently and have six points on my licence so I’m doing a speed awareness course.

The song that means most to you...Imagine by John Lennon. When Chris and I did a routine to it on TV we got a letter from Yoko Ono saying she loved our interpretation. That felt special.

The happiest moment you will cherish forever...Winning my first skating medal – a silver – when I was ten. Standing on the podium was amazing. I still have that medal.

The saddest time that shook your world...When Chris’s father, Colin, died suddenly from a heart attack in 1984, just after our triumph at the Olympics. It was such a shock, and awful to see Chris so upset.

The unfulfilled ambition that continues to haunt you...I’d like to be good at tennis but, no matter how often I play, I don’t seem to get any better.

The philosophy that underpins your life... Get something positive out of every day – especially the bad ones.

The order of service at your funeral...I’d have a church service and be brought in to Ravel’s Boléro. They’d also sing All Things Bright And Beautiful and I’d be taken out to Imagine. Chris could tell a few funny stories about me and I’d like a big party.

The way you want to be remembered...As a nice person, a good mother and friend. I’d also love people to remember me for my skating.

The Plug...Jayne appears in the DVD of Dancing On Ice – The Live Tour, £19.99. For more information, visit www.torvillanddean.com  

 

Olympic Ice-skater Jayne Torvill

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Published: 12 November 2011

Opera singer Russell Watson:

The prized possession you value above all others...My house in Cheshire, which I bought four years ago. I do business from there and it’s the epicentre of family life with my daughters, Rebecca, 17, and Hannah, ten. It’s my sanctuary.

The unqualified regret you wish you could amend...Not realising school was for learning. I saw it as a social event and left with one GCSE in English.

The way you would spend your fantasy 24 hours, with no travel restrictions...I’d have a full English breakfast in bed with my girlfriend Louise [Russell is divorced from wife Helen], then burn it off playing tennis on Centre Court at Wimbledon against Andy Murray. I’d take family and friends to Pangkor Laut in Malaysia, an island owned by a friend.

I’d have a steak at The Cut in Sydney, then back to Wembley to see Manchester United beat Barcelona 5-0 in the Champions League final. I’d end the day in bed with Louise watching a film with a bottle of vintage Krug.

The temptation you wish you could resist...Chips! I’d have chips with most things, but have to watch my weight.

The book that holds an everlasting resonance...The Gingerbread Man because it takes me back to my childhood and my kids love it. I still always feel sad and hope he won’t get eaten.

The priority activity if you were the Invisible Man for a day...I’d scare a few unscrupulous characters in the music industry. They know who they are!

The life of another with whom you’d trade places...There isn’t anybody. Even when I think of my illnesses [he survived two brain tumour operations in 2006 and 2007] I wouldn’t change anything. I think I’m still here for a purpose – to sing and make people smile.

The film you can watch time and time again...The Lion King. I’m much more emotional since my health problems and the last time I watched it, I sobbed so much my kids had to give me a hug!

The person who has influenced you most...My mother Nola taught me that honesty, loyalty and integrity are the things that really matter in life.

The figure from history for whom you’d most like to buy a pie and a pint...John Lennon. I’d want to know how he wrote so many hits.

The piece of wisdom you’d pass on to a child...School is not a playground! A good education helps you make the right decisions, so I’ve been tough on my girls about it. Rebecca got 11 GCSEs and Hannah always has her head in a book.

The unlikely interest that engages your curiosity...I like reading analytical books like Freakonomics and Malcolm Gladwell’s Blink. That’s probably not what people expect me to read!

The treasured item you lost and wish you could have again...I was mad on the football board game Super Striker when I was seven. I had tournaments with my pals and wrote programmes and match reports. I kept them in a box but they vanished and I was devastated.

The unending quest that drives you on...To keep improving at everything. I have an incredibly competitive nature, sometimes to my detriment.

The poem that touches your soul...Poetry hasn’t really entered my life, but lyrics are very important. Bernie Taupin’s words to Elton John’s Your Song are beautiful. That’s a real soul-toucher.

The misapprehension about yourself you wish you could erase...That I’m still ill! I’ve been in remission four years.

The event that altered the course of your life and character...The second tumour. A year after the first one I was back in hospital. Surviving it changed me fundamentally. My appreciation for family, friends and life quadrupled.

The crime you would commit knowing you could get away with it...I’d steal Manchester United from Malcolm Glazer and give it to the fans.

The song that means most to you...Nessun Dorma. It means so much to me and I know I can never get off stage until I have sung that song.

The happiest moment you will cherish forever...Leaving hospital after the second tumour. I wanted to be out for Rebecca’s 13th birthday. My nurse said it was impossible, but I proved her wrong. I cried on the steps speaking to reporters. It was a Rocky Balboa moment!

The saddest time that shook your world...When a dear friend of mine called Bill Vickerman died of cancer three years ago. He was only 59 and we had some amazing laughs together.

The unfulfilled ambition that continues to haunt you...To break America. Now is a good time because I’m reaching the peak age for a tenor – and Americans love a comeback story.

The philosophy that underpins your life...The more you put in, the more you get out.

The order of service at your funeral...I believe in God, so I’d want a church service and to be brought in to Nessun Dorma. I don’t want people to be too jolly, so I’d have Intermezzo from Cavalleria Rusticana by Pietro Mascagni to get the tears going. Then Ding Dong The Witch Is Dead from The Wizard Of Oz as my coffin slid behind a curtain. That would make people smile and think, ‘Yeah, that’s our Russ.’

The way you want to be remembered...As a nice bloke with a great voice.

The Plug...Return Of The Voice: Live At The Royal Albert Hall is out on Lace DVD.

Visit www.russellwatson.com.

 

 

Opera Singer Russell Watson

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Published: 5 November 2011

Film star Britt Ekland:

The prized possession you value above all others...My house by the sea near Stockholm, which used to belong to my grandparents. I have many memories of being there as a child.

The unqualified regret you wish you could amend...Getting divorced. Twice! I met Peter Sellers when I was 21 and we got married ten days later. He was not right mentally, but I hung in there for four years before I left. My second marriage, to Jim Phantom of the Stray Cats, was much happier but still ended in divorce after eight years. No matter how good a parent you are, divorce is devastating for children [Britt had a girl, Victoria, with Sellers, and a boy, Thomas Jefferson, with Phantom].

The way you would spend your fantasy 24 hours, with no travel restrictions...I’d fly to London with my chihuahua, Tequila, in the cabin with me. You’re not normally allowed to do that. I’d breakfast at the Dorchester Hotel, then fly to the Italian island of Ischia and have lunch at the beautiful harbour. I was there with Sellers but he had horrific moods and wouldn’t let me leave the hotel room. After that I’d visit my best friend, Doris, in Sydney. I’d like to sunbathe but at 69 I’m too old to wear a bikini in front of the paparazzi in St Tropez, so I’d go to Mauritius in the afternoon. I’d end the day with a party with my family in LA before sleeping back at the Dorchester.

The temptation you wish you could resist...I am unbelievably disciplined, so there isn’t anything.

The book that holds an everlasting resonance...Void Moon by Michael Connelly. I love the cleverness of his thrillers and the descriptions of LA.

The priority activity if you were the Invisible Woman for a day...I would teach UK parents how to stop their children throwing litter. London is a beautiful city, but its streets are disgusting.

The life of another with whom you would gladly trade places...I saw Goldie Hawn looking unbelievable recently. If I could be as beautifully ‘refreshed’ as that, then I’d be her!

The film you can watch time and time again...Amadeus. It has beautiful music, great costumes, but also shows the ugliness of Mozart’s descent.

The person who has influenced you most...Peter Sellers. He taught me a lot about making movies, but marrying him had a long-lasting effect on my life. The negatives far outweighed the positives.

The figure from history for whom you’d most like to buy a pie and a pint...Josephine Baker. She was the first black American female singer to become a world star, yet she also found time to adopt many children.

The piece of wisdom you would pass on to a child...Think of your pension and start saving. Like my father, I have been a spendthrift, and I regret that.

The unlikely interest that engages your curiosity...I spend hours mowing the lawn in absolutely straight lines on my tractor. If it’s not right, I do it again. 

The treasured item you lost and wish you could have again...I bought a pair of 24-carat gold chains when filming in Hong Kong in 1974. I lost one of the chains at a party five years later.

The unending quest that drives you on...I am determined to remain physically and mentally fit so I can be a fun and inspiring mother to my children.

The poem that touches your soul...Come! See What I’ve Found by my friend Ronnie Dorsey. It is a wonderful invitation to life.

The misapprehension about yourself you wish you could erase...The stories about me having affairs in the 70s and 80s were complete lies. Those men were just cashing in; most of them were gay!

The event that altered the course of your life and character...My divorce from Sellers. I was 25 and stranded with my daughter Victoria without a penny. But everything changed for the better because it made me strong and forced me to get on with my life.

The crime you would commit knowing you could get away with it...I’m a typically honest Swede, so would be too tortured if I committed a crime.
The song that means most to you...
I could say You’re In My Heart by Rod Stewart because he wrote it about me when we were together in the 70s. But at the same time he was unfaithful, and I left him. So I’ll choose Neil Young’s beautifully haunting Harvest Moon.

The happiest moment you will cherish forever...Starring in the Grumpy Old Women Live tour in 2007. It was very challenging to do theatre so late in life, but joyful and fulfilling.

The saddest time that shook your world...My mother, Mae-Britt, dying of Alzheimer’s in 1994, aged 78.

The unfulfilled ambition that continues to haunt you...To get my one-woman show back on the road.

The philosophy that underpins your life...Get on with it.

The order of service at your funeral...No funeral, no service. I’m a very practical person and don’t think it matters.

The way you want to be remembered...She did it all by herself. People think I’ve always been supported by men, but it’s not true.

The Plug...Britt appears on Living The Life on Sky Arts 1, 11 December, 8pm; visit www.sky.com/arts. She stars in Sleeping Beauty at the Theatre Royal, Windsor, from 7 December.  

 

Film Star Britt Ekland

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Published: 29 October 2011

Lyricist Sir Tim Rice:

The prized possession you value above all others...An original Dictionary Of The English Language by Dr Samuel Johnson from 1755. I bought it at auction 12 years ago for about £25,000.

The unqualified regret you wish you could amend...I wouldn’t know where to begin. Whatever I did yesterday!  

The way you would spend your fantasy 24 hours, with no travel restrictions...I’d like to spend the entire time on the Trans-Siberian Railway – the scenery is supposed to be breathtaking. And you can do so much on a rail journey – read, chat – yet all the while you are being taken on an extraordinary trip. I would take my 12-year-old daughter, Zoe, for company.

The temptation you wish you could resist...Bacon sandwiches, preferably in a baguette with lots of butter, but no sauce. They are appallingly unhealthy, but I actually have no intention of resisting them. I am all in favour of not denying oneself such pleasures.

The book that holds an everlasting resonance...The Bible. I am not particularly religious but it is such an unendingly fascinating book. Whenever I dip into it, whether for work or simply out of curiosity, it always tells me something new. How many books can do that every time?

The priority activity if you were the Invisible Man for a day...I would go to the House of Lords or Commons and interrupt debates about climate change. I’m not saying climate change isn’t happening, but the sceptics aren’t being heard, while the Government spends billions on wind turbines that are useless and ruin the countryside.

The life of another with whom you would gladly trade places...Roger Bannister. I’d love to have been the first man to run a mile in under four minutes.

The film you can watch time and time again...Paths Of Glory by Stanley Kubrick. I saw it when it came out in 1957, and Kirk Douglas is superb. It is about the futility of war and I always find it extremely moving.

The person who has influenced you most...My father, Hugh, who died in 1988 when he was 70. He was highly literate, generous, modest and funny.

The figure from history for whom you’d most like to buy a pie and a pint...It would have to be Eva Peron. Having studied her in great detail when I wrote Evita with Andrew Lloyd Webber in 1976, I would be intrigued to see how accurate my views were. And, of course, I’d ask her what she thought of the show!

The piece of wisdom you would pass on to a child...I would impress upon them that all problems are solvable and countless other people have been through exactly the same things.

The unlikely interest that engages your curiosity...Prime numbers and statistics. I even read books about mathematics, which is a bit silly, really.

The treasured item you lost and wish you could have again...A letter written by Kenneth Williams in 1988. At the time I was stuck in New York working on the show Chess, which was a shambles. The brighter moments came while reading one of Williams’s books, so I decided to write him a fan letter. He wrote back the most wonderful letter. Three weeks later he died, and in my carelessness the letter got thrown away.

The unending quest that drives you on...Staying alive – life itself is a quest.

The poem that touches your soul...Ozymandias by Shelley. It is a reminder that however great you are in life, everyone fades to nothing in the end.

The event that altered the course of your life and character...Meeting Andrew Lloyd Webber in 1965. I had gone to pitch a book to a publisher, who then suggested I meet this young composer and gave me Andrew’s address in South Kensington. When we finally met, we clicked… and look what happened.

The crime you would commit knowing you could get away with it...I would shoot some evil tyrant. There are enough of them in the world.

The song that means most to you...18 Yellow Roses by Bobby Darin. It is about a father and his daughter, and I am a bit of a sucker for that sort of thing.

The happiest moment you will cherish forever...The day three years ago when I completed walking the length and breadth of England. Myself and two friends did it as a personal challenge in various stages over 12 years and finally finished at Land’s End. It was a wonderful experience.

The saddest time that shook your world...Any death is sad, and obviously one’s parents dying was difficult, but I wouldn’t like to say one was harder than the other.

The unfulfilled ambition that continues to haunt you...I have always fancied swimming the English Channel but I am not sure I could do it now.

The philosophy that underpins your life...Always try to get on with people.

The order of service at your funeral...I wouldn’t want it to be a gloomy service, but I’m also not keen on turning every funeral into a wild party. All I ask is that a song by The Everly Brothers features somewhere.

The plug...The Lion King, for which Sir Tim wrote the lyrics to Elton John’s music, is available in 3D on Disney Bluray and DVD from 7 November.

 

 

Lyricist Sir Tim Rice

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Published: 22 October 2011

Impressionist Jon Culshaw:

The prized possession that you value above all others...A beautiful gold Victorian fob watch, which my father gave me on my 21st birthday. It was given to him on his 21st, so it was a very special thing to give me.

The unqualified regret you wish you could amend...I am not big on regrets and pride myself on being an optimist. However, I rue the day I parked one of my classic cars on my lawn to take a photo. The tyres sunk into the turf and totally wrecked the grass!

The way you would spend your fantasy 24 hours, with no travel restrictions...I have been mad on astronomy since I was a boy, so I would zoom around the solar system. I’d love to see an eclipse of Earth from the moon and the sunset from the Gusev crater on Mars. Closer to home, I’d have dinner at The Cliff in Barbados, where you can watch turtles come up the beach. Then I’d head to Antarctica to see the midnight sun.

The temptation you wish you could resist...Takeaway chips with gravy on the way back from the pub is never a good decision for my waistline.

The book that holds an everlasting resonance...The Observer’s Book Of Astronomy, which I got when I was eight. I used to watch Patrick Moore on The Sky At Night and he was the first impression I tried to do.

The priority activity if you were the Invisible Man for a day...I would stand next to a stage psychic and freak them out by whispering stuff to them when they tried to contact the dead.

The life of another with whom you would gladly trade places...Whoever is going out with Penélope Cruz!

The film you can watch time and time again...Gladiator. I love the sweep of heroism and how the villain gets his comeuppance. Russell Crowe and Joaquin Phoenix are brilliant.

The person who has influenced you most... A tutor called Eric Seal at my college near Wigan when I was 17. Until him, every teacher had scoffed at me when I said I wanted to be an entertainer. But Mr Seal said, ‘If you want to do that and believe you can, then you will make it happen.’ It was a watershed moment and he made me believe that it wasn’t such a silly dream.

The figure from history for whom you’d most like to buy a pie and a pint...Henry VIII. I’d say, ‘Now look, you. Calm down and stop beheading everyone who disagrees with you!’

The piece of wisdom you would pass on to a child...Never think something is impossible. Having belief is the first step to making ambitions come true.

The unlikely interest that engages your curiosity...I have a passion for 1970s classic cars and have four Mark III Cortinas, four Mark I Granadas and a Granada Coupe. They were once everywhere, but are now quite rare.

The treasured item you lost and wish you could have again...A photo of me when I was ten singing That’s All Right Mama in a school competition. I gave it to a producer on Sky TV’s Star Search talent show in 1991 and he lost it.

The unending quest that drives you on...To stay at the top of my game.

The poem that touches your soul...It’s one I wrote after my mum died last year of cancer. Her name was Theresa and she was 84. It is a short rhyme that says how much I preferred the world with her in it, but that I am staying positive and doing my best to get on.

The misapprehension about yourself you wish you could erase...That because I do impressions I must have some deep-rooted sadness and a need to hide. I simply do them for a laugh. That may be boring, but it’s the truth.

The event that altered the course of your life and character...I was working as a DJ on Radio Viking in Hull in 1990 and did snippets of impressions between records. One day a receptionist said, ‘You should do impressions as a job.’ Within a year, that was my job.

The crime you would commit knowing you could get away with it...I’d steal those ‘status’ dogs, like pit bull terriers and mastiffs, that young lads swagger round with, and give them to people who know how to care for them.

The song that means most to you...Saturday Sun by Nick Drake. It gives me a nice sense of contentment.

The happiest moment you will cherish forever...Coming off stage after my first performance at the Royal Variety show in 2001. I had done pretty well and I got a huge sense of euphoria.

The saddest time that shook your world...The death of my mother. She was the kindest person you could meet.

The unfulfilled ambition that continues to haunt you...Straight acting; the role I’d love would be Doctor Who.

The philosophy that underpins your life...Do not waste energy worrying. Stressing about something that might not even happen in the future robs you of your strength for today.

The order of service at your funeral...I would insist on something really daft – like the coffin being carried out to the music of Roobarb And Custard!

The way you want to be remembered...As someone who made people smile, but also as an understanding friend who always gave reassurance.

The plug...The Impressions Show With Culshaw And Stephenson begins next Wednesday on BBC1 at 8.30pm.  

 

Impressionist Jon Culshaw

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Published: 15 October 2011

Upstairs, Downstairs star Jean Marsh:

The prized possession you value above all others...My father Harry’s book of Samuel Taylor Coleridge poetry. When he died in 1991, the book was on his bedside table.

The unqualified regret you wish you could amend...I mourn the loss of a proper education. I left school at 12 for a theatre school where the focus was on dance. I had to educate myself.

The way you would spend your fantasy 24 hours, with no travel restrictions...I would breakfast at Le Bonaparte Café in Paris, where even at my age – I’m 77 – I get appreciative looks from men, which is a wonderful way to start the day. I’d then go skiing in Switzerland, before a picnic lunch in the Chiltern Hills. Back to Paris for clothes shopping then I’d go to a concert by the National Children’s Orchestra at The Sage in Gateshead. Finally, I’d head to New York for the night.

The temptation you wish you could resist...Wine. I don’t drink much, so I make sure it is expensive premier cru from Bordeaux or Burgundy.

The book that holds an everlasting resonance...The Good Soldier by Ford Madox Hueffer. It has a peculiar mix of humour and tragedy. I discover something new each time I read it. 

The priority activity if you were the Invisible Woman for a day...I am always moved by people who are struggling in life, so I would secretly help to make their life a bit easier.

The way fame and fortune has changed you, for better and worse...I can still go on buses although I often hear people saying, ‘No, it can’t be her, she doesn’t need the bus.’ As for the fortune, well, I am comfortable and I will always work.

The film you can watch time and time again...The Magnificent Ambersons, directed by Orson Welles in 1942. It predicts how inventions bring great advantage but can also be catastrophic. It is a remarkably affecting film.

The person who has influenced you most...My father. He was a workingclass printer’s assistant and had a hard life. He was brilliant and self-taught. I had huge respect for him. He made me appreciate the arts.

The figure from history for whom you’d most like to buy a pie and a pint...The 19th-century French politician and philosopher Pierre-Joseph Proudhon. I’d discuss his comment ‘property is theft’ over a glass of red wine and a tarte au pomme!

The piece of wisdom you would pass on to a child...Never get set in your ways. The world’s full of possibilities.

The unlikely interest that engages your curiosity...Maths. I am fascinated by prime factors. They are poetic.

The treasured item you lost and wish you could have again...A beautiful and expensive French coffee cup. It had two handles and I used it every day until it was lost in a house move.

The unending quest that drives you on...

Finding an ordered system for books and files. I have chaotic piles of stuff.

The poem that touches your soul...No Time Ago by E.E. Cummings. The late John Mortimer introduced me to it. It gives me empathy for anyone who is lonely. I live alone, but I am happy.

The misapprehension about yourself you wish you could erase...People think I have confidence but I am actually very shy. The only thing I have great confidence in is my cooking.

The event that altered the course of your life and character...I co-created Upstairs Downstairs with Eileen Atkins and ITV commissioned the series. It was incredibly exciting!

The crime you would commit knowing you could get away with it...I simply couldn’t commit a crime. I feel guilty even when I haven’t done anything!

The song that means most to you...Where’er You Walk, from Handel’s opera Semele. It reminds me of my mother Emma singing at home.

The happiest moment you will cherish forever...I went on a short break with an ex-beau to Switzerland for my 50th. We were on a beautiful walk and I thought, I am so happy. At that moment, my friend called out, ‘I am so happy.’ It made everything special.

The saddest time that shook your world...My father’s death. He died from a brain tumour and it took me several years to get over the loss. I was distressed that his life had been so unsatisfactory. He wanted to achieve so much more, but for whatever reason he never fully realised his potential and that caused a lot of anger in him.

The unfulfilled ambition that continues to haunt you...I wish I’d worked for the Royal Shakespeare Company or the National Theatre. I am too old now, but maybe I could be an extra.

The philosophy that underpins your life...Don’t be afraid to change your mind. When I change mine, I think, ‘I was wrong, but now I am right!’

The order of service at your funeral...I’d like a traditional Catholic mass in a country church with Mozart’s Requiem. I’ve put aside money for a wonderful party with great champagne.

The way you want to be remembered...I would be happy if people thought, ‘Jean is dead. Oh, I will miss her!’

The plug...My novel Fiennders Abbey is out now and The House Of Eliott is released in December. Both are published by Pan Macmillan at £7.99.  

 

Upstairs, Downstairs Star Jean Marsh

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Published: 8 October 2011

Presenter Ulrika Jonsson:

The prized possession you value above all others...Our six-month-old bulldog, Royal Empire My Fair Lady – or Dot for short. She was a surprise from my husband, Brian, and is like my fifth child.

The unqualified regret you wish you could amend...Not fighting hard enough to have my late father, Bo, at my first wedding in 1990 [to cameraman John Turnbull]. My mother insisted that if I invited him, she wouldn’t turn up.

She put me in an awful position, but I should have stood my ground. He died five years later and, to this day, I am still furious with my weakness.

The way you would spend your fantasy 24 hours, with no travel restrictions...Me, Brian and the children would take a dip in the cold sea off the Swedish coast, before picnicking on herrings and bread, with schnapps for the grownups. We’d end the day back in England eating a big roast dinner in front of a roaring fire, before curling up with popcorn, hot chocolate and a movie.

The temptation you wish you could resist...A Swedish chocolate milk drink called O’boy. The taste brings back happy childhood memories.

The book that holds an everlasting resonance...A Child Is Born by Lennart Nilsson. He took ground-breaking pictures of conception, pregnancy and birth. I was about ten when I first read it and the miracle of life took my breath away. I knew then that my only ambition in life was to become a mother.

The priority activity if you were the Invisible Woman for a day...I’d pop into a coffee shop and listen to strangers chatting about their joys and woes.

The way fame and fortune has changed you, for better and worse...It has brought me some amazing opportunities, such as being taught to ice skate by Torvill and Dean. However, it has made me a bit of a recluse. People have such strong preconceptions about me that it is exhausting trying to break those down. The result is, I tend to go out only with very close friends.

The film you can watch time and time again...Paper Moon, starring Ryan O’Neal and his nine-year-old daughter, Tatum. It is about the complexities of a father-daughter relationship. I watched it with my father when I was a kid and it always reminds me of us.

The person who has influenced you most...My late father. He died suddenly from a brain haemorrhage in 1995, aged 53. He wasn’t without his faults, but he was such a kind and loving man. I always felt that everything would be OK when I was with him. I loved his wicked sense of humour and he taught me to laugh at myself. And, boy, have I needed that skill! The figure from history for whom you’d most like to buy a pie and a pint... Picasso – I’d ask him about his art, his beliefs and, of course, his love of women.

The piece of wisdom you would pass on to a child...Always acknowledge your mistakes and say sorry. You will be surprised how far that will get you.

The unlikely interest that engages your curiosity...I have been fascinated by gardening since I was nine, when I grew peppers in a pot on our windowsill. I’m happiest when tending my vegetables or flowers. And I have a secret crush on Monty Don. Oooh, the things he can do with those rugged hands!

The unending quest that drives you on...Trying to find the perfect balance in life. I am always juggling work, running the house and giving my children copious amounts of love and attention.

The poem that touches your soul...The Going by Thomas Hardy – it describes how he found out how much he loved his wife only after her death.

The misapprehension about yourself you wish you could erase...That I am a man-eater! I haven’t had that many boyfriends – it’s just that some of my relationships have been high-profile.

The event that altered the course of your life and character...Moving to England at the age of 12, which gave me so many wonderful opportunities.

The crime you would commit knowing you could get away with it...I would steal from the rich and give to the poor.

The song that means most to you...Romeo And Juliet by Dire Straits always makes me cry. The tragedy of love can be overwhelming.

The happiest moment you will cherish forever...Aside from the births of my children, marrying my third husband, Brian Monet. It was incredibly emotional and felt completely right, which was something I hadn’t felt before.

The saddest time that shook your world...The death of my father. The moment my sister called and screamed the news down the phone never leaves me. I miss him impossible amounts and think about him all the time. To this day, part of me can never accept it.

The unfulfilled ambition that continues to haunt you...I’d love to go into acting.

The philosophy that underpins your life...Be true to yourself.

The order of service at your funeral...Let there be no ‘order’, let there be chaos! I want a celebration of my life with food, drink and fantastic loud music.

The way you want to be remembered...Pure and simple: as a great mother.

The Plug...My fantastic debut novel, The Importance Of Being Myrtle, is published by Penguin, £6.99. For all sorts of reasons, it is a huge personal achievement.

 

 

Presenter Ulrika Jonsson

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Published: 1 October 2011

Director & Monty Python Terry Gilliam:

The prized possession that you value above all others...Our house in north London, which my wife Maggie and I bought 26 years ago. It was built in 1694 and I feel like the temporary custodian. I can’t
imagine living anywhere else.

The way you would spend your fantasy 24 hours, with no travel restrictions...I like the idea of launching myself off Mont Blanc on a hang-glider and floating over Europe all day.

The temptation you wish you could resist...The computer. I spend up to seven hours a day on it. Even when I stop working, the screen saver plays a random slide show of my photos and I sit there reliving my life in slow motion.

The book that holds an everlasting resonance...Catch-22 by Joseph Heller. I read it on a subway train in New York in 1961 and laughed so hard I fell off my seat. I loved its weird fatalism.

The priority activity if you were the Invisible Man for a day...It’d be pretty interesting to hang out with Colonel Gaddafi and see what he’s up to.

The way fame and fortune has changed you, for better and worse...Life is easy because I have no debts so can afford my three children and pursue work I want to do. The downside is you get isolated and find it hard to understand everyone else’s frustrations.

The film you can watch time and time again...Walt Disney’s Pinocchio blew me away when I was eight. It has the most exquisitely detailed drawings. I saw it again 15 years ago and was amazed how it had held up.

The person who has influenced you most...Cartoonist Harvey Kurtzman. I was his assistant in the 60s and he taught
me about satire and the craftsmanship of cartooning. Because of him I was able to free my mind and create crazy cartoons – like the big foot – that later became such emblems of Monty Python. Harvey was a godfather of Python.

The figure from history for whom you’d most like to buy a pie and a pint... Pythagoras. I’d like to ask him if he really did invent everything he is
credited with, or if, like many of us suspect, he got it all from Egypt.

The piece of wisdom you would pass on to a child...When it comes to a job, have the courage to do what makes you happy.

The unlikely interest that engages your curiosity...Etymology. I’m intrigued by the origin of words and how they interconnect history. It’s a challenging subject for someone like me, who has a pitifully limited vocabulary.

The treasured item you lost and wish you could have again...A full-length sheepskin coat I bought in Turkey and hand-painted in 1964. I was wearing it when I first met Eric Idle and Terry Jones of Monty Python in the late 1960s. They were blown away by the coat and it kickstarted the friendship. They thought I was pretty cool because of that coat. I’ve no idea how I lost it.

The unending quest that drives you on...To find the energy and inspiration each day to be surprised in life.

The poem that touches your soul...I love the intensity of The Tyger by William Blake. It is so dark and reminds me that nature is waiting to devour us.

The misapprehension about yourself you wish you could erase...Hollywood studios think I’m out of control, but I’m not. I’m very controlled. I like being an outsider and a rebel, but the image makes it harder for me to get money for my films. The Baron Munchausen movie went completely over budget, but I can’t take credit for that!

The event that altered the course of your life and character...When I left the US to hitchhike around Europe aged 24 – the world opened up. There was no going home after that and I came to live in England as soon as I could.

The crime you would commit knowing you could get away with it...I’d blow up the London Stock Exchange because the financial systems that drive the world are obscene.

The song that means most to you...Maggie May by Rod Stewart from 1971. Around this time, I met my wife who was doing make-up on Python and I associate it with her. Liking that song is also one of the few things we agree on!

The happiest moment you will cherish forever...I’m sorry but I have to be indefinite on this one. I am convinced everything good will suddenly disappear. I’m just grateful for little happy moments in each day and cannot classify any one time as the happiest.

The saddest time that shook your world...That’s easy: when Heath Ledger died while filming The Imaginarium Of Doctor Parnassus in 2008. He was a close friend and a wonderful person.

The unfulfilled ambition that continues to haunt you...To film The Man Who Killed Don Quixote. I started 22 years ago but it keeps eluding me. Sheer pig-headedness drives me on.

The order of service at your funeral...I’m not sentimental and being dead means I’ll be the lucky guy. It’s over, finito. It’s the living who’ll be having a rough time, so I want music, dancing and laughter. And no Bibles in sight.

The way you want to be remembered...That I left the place a bit more interesting than before I arrived and that my
cartooning got other people looking at this outrageous world with new eyes.

The plug...Terry has his portrait painted in Fame In The Frame, Tuesday, 8.30pm,
Sky Arts1. www.sky.com/arts

 

Director & Monty Python Terry Gilliam

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Published: 24 September 2011

Actor Marc Warren:

The prized possession that you value above all others...My Tempur mattress. I bought it about eight years ago and have been sleeping pretty soundly ever since. It moulds to your body and they claim NASA helped with the design. Apparently, if you live until 75, you’ll have spent 25 years in bed, so it makes sense to have a decent mattress.

The unqualified regret you wish you could amend...I don’t regret things because I learn from mistakes. If needs be, I always make amends.

The way you would spend your fantasy 24 hours, with no travel restrictions...I don’t like planning because it robs me of freedom, so I’d like a 24 hours that was full of surprises. I love Mallorca, so maybe I would go there with close friends, but travel is not essential.

The temptation you wish you could resist...Buying gadgets from the Apple Store. I love the design and quality of Mac machines and always get thelatest kit. The new iPad is brilliant.

The book that holds an everlasting resonance...The Little Prince by Antoine de Saint-Exupéry. I first read it when I was 17 and sitting in the back of an old Daimler with my girlfriend as her parents drove. It was snowing heavily and the story was as magical as the landscape. I love the depiction of the world through a child’s eyes.

The priority activity if you were the Invisible Man for a day...I’d love to work with Sir Anthony Hopkins, but if that doesn’t happen, I’d sneak on to a film set and watch him at work. He is a compelling actor.

The life of another with whom you would gladly trade placesThe German spiritual teacher Eckhart Tolle. He wrote the book The Power Of Now and I would like to taste the immediacy of life that he experiences.

The film you can watch time and time again...Badlands from 1973, which I watched on video aged 12. Martin Sheen’s performance as a young man on a killing spree left me speechless. And it still does whenever I see it.

The person who has influenced you most...My school drama teacher Rhys Harrison. He was very honest with me about acting. He said: ‘You’ve got to have talent, luck and a thick skin.’ He
was right, and his advice stayed with me – especially the ‘thick skin’ bit!

The figure from history for whom you’d most like to buy a pie and a pint...Buddha. I’d ask him for some tips on the shortcuts to Enlightenment.

The piece of wisdom you would pass on to a child...If you don’t fall off, you’ll never learn how to get back on.

The unlikely interest that engages your curiosity...Snooker. When I was 17, I spent two years as the compere for the World Snooker Doubles tournament circuit, which was screened on television. I introduced all the greats, such as Alex Higgins and Steve Davis. I love watching the game and playing it, although I’m not very good.

The treasured item you lost and wish you could have again...When I was about seven, I had an air-pressure bazooka gun that fired plastic balls. I can’t remember how I lost it, but I was devastated. It was the best bazooka a boy could ever wish for.

The unending quest that drives you on...Enlightenment. When I finally give up looking, I will find it.

The poem that touches your soul...The Road Not Taken by Robert Frost. It is about individualism. I took the other road and that has made all the difference in my life.

The misapprehension about yourself you wish you could erase...Acting opens up a world of misapprehension. I sometimes get odd looks in shops or the bank. Maybe, because of Hustle, people expect me to be a conman!

The event that altered the course of your life and character...I stopped drinking alcohol in 2004. Everything changed – for the better.

The crime you would commit knowing you could get away with it...Impersonating someone who looked like they knew what they were talking about.

The song that means most to you...The White Horses by Jackie Lee, the theme tune to the TV series of the
same name, which I loved in the early Seventies. It reminds me of happy
times growing up in Northampton.

The happiest moment you will cherish forever...The day I heard I had got into drama school when I was 19. I danced around my living room to Rebel Rebel by David Bowie.

The saddest time that shook your world...A grandparent died when I was five. Aside from the upset, I had the sudden, irreversible insight that one day I wouldn’t be around any more, either.

The unfulfilled ambition that continues to haunt you...It would be nice to have a film career.

The philosophy underpinning your life...This is it.

The order of service at your funeral...In my more dramatic moments, I always fancied Joni Mitchell singing
Woodstock. I might be able to top that with Suzanne by Leonard Cohen.

The way you want to be remembered...As someone who treated people decently and was never one to judge

The plug...Marc is starring in Cool Hand Luke at the Aldwych Theatre, London. Visit www.coolhandluke. co.uk for details.

 

 

Actor Marc Warren

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Published: 17 September 2011

Film director Michael Winner:

"The race in life is not for the fleet of foot, it is for the plodder"

 

We ask a celebrity a set of devilishly probing questions – and only accept THE definitive answer. This week it’s bon viveur and film director Michael Winner…

 

The prized possession you value above all others...My collection of children’s book illustrations, including original drawings of Winnie-the-Pooh by Ernest Shephard. It is worth about £2 million, but the money is unimportant. The pictures give me great pleasure.

 

The unqualified regret you wish you could amend...I didn’t give my parents enough attention because I was obsessed with being a jack-the-lad film director. I feel utterly ashamed.  

 

The way you would spend your fantasy 24 hours, with no travel restrictions...I hate airports, so I would need a private jet to fly my fiancée Geraldine [whom Michael is due to marry on Monday] and me to two countries I have never visited – India and China. A helicopter would whizz us to the Taj Mahal, the Great Wall and the Forbidden City, and I would lap up the different cultures.

 

The temptation you wish you could resist...I wish my brain said ‘No’ when confronted with a chocolate éclair, rather than ‘As many as possible’.

 

The book that holds an everlasting resonance...Walter The Farting Dog. It is about a dog that paralyses some burglars with his farts. I am very childish – it is my only quality!

 

The priority activity if you were the Invisible Man for a day...I’d go to Downing St reet to observe the so-called great and good who lead us. We are told they are better than us, but I am certain they are all dumb.

 

The way fame and fortune has changed you, for better and worse...I have been famous for 50 years, so it is hard to know if I have changed. I can walk down the street without much trouble, although people sometimes shout, ‘Calm down, dear!’ As for the fortune, I am £9 million in debt!

 

The film you can watch time and time again...The Third Man with Orson Welles is a perfect example of film-making. I have seen it 36 times.  

 

The person who has influenced you most...A schoolmistress called Miss Hobbs who ran a crammer college in London. I left school at 16 with a terrible education, but in one year Miss Hobbs got me into Cambridge to study Law and Economics. She gave me an inner peace that changed my life.

 

The figure from history for whom you’d most like to buy a pie and a pint...Queen Boudicca. I like people who know what they want and fight for it.

 

The piece of wisdom you would pass on to a child...The race in life is not for the fleet of foot, it is for the plodder.

 

The unlikely interest that engages your curiosity...I enjoy polishing furniture and hand-washing my silk shirts. You get an immediate result.

 

The treasured item you lost and wish you could have again...My youth. I did well by normal standards, but I didn’t spend it wisely. Losing your youth is highly unfortunate!

 

The unending quest that drives you on...To remain part of the scene. I am 75, but I work a full day to stay sharp.

 

The poem that touches your soul...Oscar Wilde’s The Ballad Of Reading Gaol. He suffered so dreadfully.

 

The misapprehension about yourself you wish you could erase...People expect me to enter restaurants screaming and shouting, but I am actually a very shy, decent human being who comes in quietly, eats, thanks everyone, then leaves. I am largely to blame for creating this comedy monster.

 

The event that altered the course of your life and character...Going to Cambridge. I never thought I was worthy of it, but the people I met there inspired me to be myself.

 

The crime you would commit knowing you could get away with it...I would fix the Lottery. I am richer than most, but I need more money to fund my lifestyle.

 

The song that means most to you...That’s Amore by Dean Martin. The Fifties was my favourite era.

 

The happiest moment you will cherish forever...When Marlon Brando called me in LA in 1970 and invited me to his house to discuss the film The Nightcomers. It marked the beginning of a wonderful 30-year friendship.

 

The saddest time that shook your world...When my mother died in 1984 aged 78. We had fallen out because she gambled away £100 million of my inheritance. We had not spoken for four months, but I was prepared to have a reconciliation. I delayed it, then she died. It upsets me to this day.

 

The unfulfilled ambition that continues to haunt you...I wish I had won an Oscar. It is most unlikely now, but miracles can happen.

 

The philosophy that underpins your life...When you leave a room, ensure the people you were with are happier than they were before you went in.

 

The order of service at your funeral...I don’t want a funeral, but I’d like to be buried on a patch of grass near the National Police Memorial at Cambridge Green in London. I am the chairman and founder of the Police Memorial Trust charity, but it is against the law to be buried there, so I’d need some friends to secretly dig a hole at 4am and throw in my body.

 

The way you want to be remembered...As someone who contributed some degree of happiness to the nation.

 

The Plug...My latest memoir, Tales I Never Told, is published by The Robson Press on 20 October, priced £16.99.  

 

 

The Michael Winner died aged 77 on 21st January 2013 following several years of liver illness. He was survived by his wife Geraldine. RIP.

 

 

Film Director Michael Winner

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Published: 10 September 2011

England rugby captain Lewis Moody:

The prized possession you value above all others…My great-grandfather Lewis Walton Moody’s 1914 Star Campaign medal from World War I. He survived the war and, like my dad, I am named after him. My father gave me the medal, so it means everything to me.

The unqualified regret you wish you could amend…Not working hard enough at school. Girls and sport were much more exciting to me.  

The way you would spend your fantasy 24 hours, with no travel restrictions…I love ancient history so I’d visit Egypt with my wife, Annie, and trek around the pyramids. Then I’d take my boys, Dylan, four, and Ethan, one, on an outing that would get them dead excited, like Peppa Pig World in Hampshire.

The temptation you wish you could resist…Pick ’n’ mix sweets at the cinema. I always buy about £10 worth and devour the lot.

The book that holds an everlasting resonance…Somme Mud by an Australian soldier called Private Edward Francis Lynch. The diaries of his three years in the trenches are harrowing. I feel blessed and humbled by the privileges they fought for us to have.  

The priority activity if you were the Invisible Man for a day…I could think of something, but I’m not sure it would be entirely appropriate!

The way fame and fortune has changed you, for better and worse…I get invited to loads of amazing things, but the contradiction is I socialise less these days because, since becoming captain, I’m wary of people seeing me out having a good time with my mates.

The film you can watch time and time again…Old School with Will Ferrell is genius slapstick. He is my favourite comedy actor and the film is hilarious.

The person who has influenced you most…My dad, Lewis. His work ethic and focus taught me that to succeed in life you must have the determination to put your all into everything.

The figure from history for whom you’d most like to buy a pie and a pint…Winston Churchill. His speeches are so powerful, but he was also very humorous. I love his response when a woman accused him of being drunk and he said, ‘Madam, I may be drunk, but you are ugly. In the morning, I shall be sober, but you will still be ugly.’

The piece of wisdom you would pass on to a child…Listen to your parents. Be humble enough to realise you do not know everything and they have valuable wisdom.

The unlikely interest that engages your curiosity…Archaeology. As a boy I’d spend hours digging holes in our garden and get really buzzed finding clay pipes and old bottles. I watch Time Team with Tony Robinson religiously.

The treasured item you lost and wish you could have again…My grandad Basil’s penknife, which my dad gave to me when I was 14. I didn’t appreciate its sentimental value and lost it a few weeks later while camping.

The unending quest that drives you on…To play the perfect game of rugby. Even if you’ve played really well, there’s always something you wished you had done better.

The poem that touches your soul…The Soldier by Rupert Brooke. I first read it at school and found it incredibly moving. I still do.

The misapprehension about yourself you wish you could erase…My nickname is ‘Mad Dog’ because I play the game with total commitment, so there is a perception that I am a crazy psycho off the pitch. The reality is I’m a very normal, relaxed family man.

The event that altered the course of your life and character…Playing my first game for Leicester Tigers when I was 18 in 1997. I scored two tries and afterwards Rory Underwood said, ‘That was awesome.’

The crime you would commit knowing you could get away with it…I’d steal my all-time favourite car – a classic 1960s AC Cobra sports car.

The song that means most to you…My Hero by Foo Fighters. I listen to it on my iPod before every game.

The happiest moment you will cherish forever…Meeting my wife Annie for the first time at university. It was an instant attraction.

The saddest time that shook your world…The death of my grandfather. I was 11, and seeing my dad crying at the funeral was so difficult to understand because I was used to him being the strong person. He said, ‘You’ll have to look after me now.’

The unfulfilled ambition that continues to haunt you…To be an archaeologist. I think I watched the Indiana Jones films a bit too often as a kid!

The philosophy that underpins your life…I always train the way I mean to play. The same applies to my approach to life: give everything to everything. I never want to look back on my life and feel I didn’t try hard enough.

The order of service at your funeral…I would prefer an outside service and a party with good food and music, rather than something depressing.

The way you want to be remembered…As a loyal friend and someone who enjoyed himself and gave everything.

The plug...O2 sponsors the England Rugby team. To win a holiday to New Zealand, visit: www.getup forengland.co.uk.

 

 

England Rugby Captain Lewis Moody

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Published: 3 September 2011

Politician Anne Widdecombe:

The prized possession you value above all others...A photo of my mother and my brother, Malcolm, when he was five, which my father always had with him during World War II. It touches me because it signals my father’s longing for his family.

The unqualified regret you wish you could amend...My elderly mother fell down the stairs and broke her left leg when she lived with me and I always felt responsible. I went to work early without waking the live-in carer and my mother tried to go downstairs alone.  

The way you would spend your fantasy 24 hours, with no travel restrictions...It is a dream to see Earth from above so I would orbit the planet. After that, I’d walk on Dartmoor, where I live, then have a quiet night by the fire with a good book and a whisky and soda.

The temptation you wish you could resist...Strawberry pavlova. Even if I’m watching my weight, if I see it on a menu I must have it.

The book that holds an everlasting resonance...All Quiet On The Western Front by Erich Maria Remarque. It brings home the horrors of World War I from the view of ordinary people.  

The priority activity if you were the Invisible Woman for a day...I’d muddle up Craig Revel Horwood’s scoring cards on Strictly Come Dancing so he awarded 10s to everybody.

The way fame and fortune has changed you, for better and worse...None of the fame thing really matters. I was incredibly driven in my career and the greatest cost was the precious time I missed with my mother.

The film you can watch time and time again...The Pianist. I like the twist that the man who should have been his friend betrays him, while the man dressed as the enemy helps him.

The person who has influenced you most...Sister Mary Evangelista, who was my Latin teacher. She inspired me to love Latin as well as to make the most of life. We are still in touch.

The figure from history for whom you’d most like to buy a pie and a pint...King Charles II. There is some poor evidence that he married Lucy Walter, but I’d like the definitive answer. It would have had a profound effect on our monarchy.

The piece of wisdom you would pass on to a child...Keep up your skills. Don’t assume you will always be able to do something just because you are good at it when you are young.

The unlikely interest that engages your curiosity...Charles II’s escape after the battle of Worcester. He was on the run for weeks. It fascinates me.

The treasured item you lost and wish you could have again...I had a set of videos of the Paul Of Tarsus TV series, which I had loved in the early Sixties. Sadly, a relative recorded over one of the cassettes – with an episode of Ultimate Force! I was so furious.

The unending quest that drives you on...Eternal salvation. This Earth is only a preparation for the next world.

The poem that touches your soul...Elegy Written In A Country Churchyard by Thomas Gray. Every politician should read the famous line, ‘The paths of glory lead but to the grave,’ because it puts ambition into context.

The misapprehension about yourself you wish you could erase...That I proposed to shackle women prisoners in childbirth. I never ever did and the proof is in Hansard, but people always assume it’s true. It is irritating!

The event that altered the course of your life and character...I’m sorry, but nothing has dramatically swung my life because everything has roughly followed the course I designed.

The crime you would commit knowing you could get away with it...I am against abortion, so I would incapacitate every abortion clinic.

The song that means most to you...Old Folks At Home by Paul Robeson, about a slave longing to be reunited with his family. It has particular resonance now because my brother died last year, so I’m the last of my family.

The happiest moment you will cherish forever...My reception into the Catholic Church in April 1993. I was an active Christian, but this was the resolution of a spiritual quest.

The saddest time that shook your world...The death of my mother when she was 95. She lived with me for eight years. She was a marvellous, gentle woman and I miss her. I held her hand as she died peacefully at my home.

The unfulfilled ambition that continues to haunt you...I am past ambition and nothing haunts me, but I would like to have been Prime Minister. I would have introduced zero tolerance and brought common sense back into a politically correct Britain.

The philosophy that underpins your life... Carpe diem. Seize the day. Get the most out of each day because you don’t know if it will be your last.

The order of service at your funeral...I would have a Roman Catholic requiem at Westminster Cathedral. They’d sing He Who Would Valiant Be and I’d like John Major to give the address.

The way you want to be remembered...Just as a loyal, good friend.

The Plug...My theatre show An Audience With Ann Widdecombe is touring this autumn. For tickets visit www. celebrityproductions.info

 

 

Politician Anne Widdecombe

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Published: 27 August 2011

Playwright Sir David Hare:

The prized possession you value above all others...My wife [fashion designer Nicole Farhi] sculpted our gold wedding rings. Each has two hares, which form a circle around the finger as they run in pursuit of each other for ever.

The unqualified regret you wish you could amend...Not reading medicine. Doctor-writers are the best – Anton Chekhov being the pre-eminent example. The moment I arrived at Cambridge University to read English, I envied the medics, who on the first day went straight into dissection.

The way you would spend your fantasy 24 hours, with no travel restrictions...Alfred Hitchcock will be found to have made another film. After a day on an Italian beach, my family will host the first screening of this hitherto unseen masterpiece. As sunset comes, we will stroll out on to the terrace at the San Pietro Hotel in Positano and sit down to spaghetti alla vongole. Over dinner, we will discuss the film.

The temptation you wish you could resist...I get to airports ridiculously early. It’s an uncontrollable urge.

The book that holds an everlasting resonance...The End Of The Affair by Graham Greene. It’s the ideal for any author to be both good and popular.

The priority activity if you were the Invisible Man for a day...I’d walk the woods near Crawford, Texas, in April 2002 to find out what on earth Tony Blair said to George Bush when, alone, they cooked up the catastrophic Iraq invasion of the following year.

The way fame and fortune has changed you, for better and worse...Life’s taught me good taste, which I was better off without. When I was young, I wrote without worrying whether it was any good or not. Often, it was bad but bold. Nowadays, the danger is being good but mild.

The film you can watch time and time again...Federico Fellini’s 8½ from 1963. It’s about a director who knows he will never be able to catch the impossible richness of his memories on film. I always cry throughout.

The person who has influenced you most...My university tutor Raymond Williams. By example, he taught me culture is not the property of the few but of the many, and important changes in culture always come from below.

The figure from history for whom you’d most like to buy a pie and a pint...The Virgin Mary would make an interesting interviewee.

The piece of wisdom you would pass on to a child...Ask your parents questions straight away, or you’ll never know.

The unlikely interest that engages your curiosity...I love making jam. Plum is best.

The treasured item you lost and wish you could have again...My dad cleared out the attic and for no reason got rid of the 8mm film of my childhood.

The unending quest that drives you on...I would like to write a play which doesn’t disappoint me 20 years later.

The poem that touches your soul...War Has Been Given A Bad Name by Bertolt Brecht, which knocks every stupid opinion about war on the head in 16 lines.

The misapprehension about yourself you wish you could erase...That because I’ve written about politics, I’ve never written about anything else.

The event that altered the course of your life and character...I wrote a play called Knuckle in 1974, which opened to hostile reviews during the three-day week. The critics were outraged by an anti-capitalist play in the commercial theatre and the fight to keep it afloat for four months marked me as adversarial for a long time to come, which was probably not good for my character or for my peace of mind.

The crime you would commit knowing you could get away with it...I’d put a pillow over David Cameron’s sleeping head. He seems to be exactly the kind of glib, shallow PR man that Conservatives are traditionally meant to disapprove of. Why he is the leader of their party, I have no idea.

The song that means most to you...This week it’s I Fall In Love Too Easily by Chet Baker.

The happiest moment you will cherish forever...I took Nicole out to dinner for the first time on 19 October, 1991. After that, everything changed.

The saddest time that shook your world...My father’s death coincided with my production of The Secret Rapture flopping on Broadway. Nothing but bad flowed from both events.  

The unfulfilled ambition that continues to haunt you...I stopped directing movies in the late Eighties because I believed I couldn’t be a playwright and a filmmaker. I am haunted by the films I never made.

The philosophy that underpins your life...People need justice.

The order of service at your funeral...The passage from Chekhov’s short story, The Lady With The Little Dog, where the lovers sit on the bench above the sea, followed by the piece where a separated couple are reunited by the foreknowledge of death from Jonathan Franzen’s novel, Freedom.

The way you want to be remembered...It will be great if the plays stay funny.

The plug...Page Eight – the new film I’ve written and the first I’ve directed in 20 years – is on BBC2, tomorrow, at 9pm.

 

 

Playwright Sir David Hare

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Published: 20 August 2011

MasterChef presenter Gregg Wallace:

The prized possession you value above all others...My whippet Snoopy. Walking alone with him on the hills or the beaches in Kent are special times for me to relax. He was a rescue dogmy wife Heidi found. He’s a real character – like an excitable teenager.

The unqualified regret you wish you could amend...Leaving school when I was 14. My parents broke up when I was young and I lost all direction. Messing up the chance of higher education is an enormous regret.

The way you would spend your fantasy 24 hours, with no travel restrictions...I would give myself over to gluttony by eating from breakfast to dinner at every three-star Michelin restaurant in Europe. It would have to be just me and Snoopy because my wife would make me watch what I eat.

The temptation you wish you could resist...Sweetened Chantilly cream with vanilla. As my mate Michel Roux Junior says, ‘Put Chantilly cream on anything and Gregg will eat it!’

The book that holds an everlasting resonance...The Art Of War In The Western World by Archer Jones. It explains army strategies in perfect detail.

The priority activity if you were the Invisible Man for a day...I’d be on the pitch during the final in this autumn’s Rugby World Cup and trip up the New Zealand wingers so England win.

The way fame and fortune has changed you, for better and worse...I can get a table at any restaurant at any time, but being stuck on the Tube with people staring at you is not so great.

The film you can watch time and time again...Waterloo from 1970 with Rod Steiger as Napoleon. It is incredible and has so many layers of stories.

The person who has influenced you most...Karen Ross, the executive producer of MasterChef. I had a cup of tea with her in 2005 and she asked me to talk about food. I spoke continuously for 40 minutes, then she gave me the job. She completely changed my life.

The figure from history for whom you’d most like to buy a pie and a pint...Alexander the Great, the ancient king of Macedonia. He came from a country the size and strength of Wales, but defeated the world’s biggest empires.

The piece of wisdom you would pass on to a child...Make friends with everyone – whether you like them or not – because they might be able to help you one day.

The unlikely interest that engages your curiosity...I love history. My house is stacked with history books.

The treasured item you lost and wish you could have again...My hair! I was 17 when it started falling out. I was born bald, was hairy for a few years, then reverted to type.

The unending quest that drives you on...I left home at 14 with nothing and I’ve been grafting ever since because I’m scared of having nothing again.

The poem that touches your soul...It’s not a poem but a song from a Winnie the Pooh book that goes, ‘The more it snows (Tiddely pom), The more it goes (Tiddely pom), The more it goes (Tiddely pom), On snowing.’ I love the humour and innocence of Pooh and still read the books. They’re brilliant.

The misapprehension about yourself you wish you could erase...Everyone thinks I’m a chef, but I’m a greengrocer with a love of fine food.

The event that altered the course of your life and character...Getting a job as a fruit and veg salesman at New Covent Garden Market in 1987 when I was 22. Up until then, I’d only had manual jobs and being paid to use my brain was a massive step. In two years, I had my own greengrocery business.

The crime you would commit knowing you could get away with it...I’d set myself up for life with a bank robbery.

The song that means most to you...Romeo And Juliet by Dire Straits. Heidi and I met on Twitter two-andhalf years ago by quoting lyrics from that song. We pussyfooted around until she tweeted, ‘You and me babe, how about it?’ And boom! That was it.

The happiest moment you will cherish forever...My wedding on 8 January this year at Coworth Park Hotel near Ascot. Heidi cuddled me all the way through the ceremony because I couldn’t stop crying. It was the loveliest of days.  [NB: Greg and Heidi separated in March 2012]

The saddest time that shook your world...My grandfather Sid dying from a haemorrhage when I was 19. I sat with him in intensive care, but he never pulled through. He was a strong, great man and like a father to me.

The unfulfilled ambition that continues to haunt you...I’m determined to get a history degree one day.

The philosophy that underpins your life...To keep progressing in all I do.

The order of service at your funeral...I’d like the hymn Jerusalem, which always moves me when it’s sung at international rugby matches. And I would want everyone to have a huge knickerbocker glory. I loved them as a kid and always got one when my grandad took me to Margate.

The way you want to be remembered...As a single dad who did a decent job raising his kids, Tom and Libby [Gregg endured a long custody battle with their mother]. To have been a good father is my proudest boast.

The plug...Rugby fan Gregg is encouraging supporters to Get Up For England, with O2. Win a trip to New Zealand at www.getupforengland.co.uk

 

MasterChef Presenter Gregg Wallace

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Published: 13 August 2011

Adventurer & TV presenter Ben Fogle:

The prized possession you value above all others...My 12-year-old black Labrador, Inca. I got her as a puppy during my year on Taransay [the island used for the BBC series Castaway in 2000] and I love her more than I can describe. She has been my most loyal friend and helped me find a wife – I met Marina while we were walking our dogs.

The unending quest that drives you on...Who am I and what am I here for? But maybe I’m going a little deep!

The way you would spend your fantasy 24 hours, with no travel restrictions...A swim and breakfast on the Amalfi coast in Italy with Marina and our son Ludo, 20 months, and daughter Iona, 11 weeks, then a walk in the Bolivian Andes. Lunch on an island in French Polynesia, followed by shopping in New York. Tea in Cartagena, Colombia, then dinner under the stars in the Okavango Delta of Botswana and a night safari. Home to my bed in west London.

The temptation you wish you could resist...Crisps. My weakness verges on addiction. I’ll eat any flavour.

The book that holds an everlasting resonance...The Poisonwood Bible by Barbara Kingsolver from 1998 is a tale about missionaries in the Congo. It’s a dark parable of one man’s blinkered
passion and it took my breath away.

The priority activity if you were the Invisible Man for a day...I’d love to know what my son Ludo does and how his mind works when we’re not looking.

The way fame and fortune has changed you, for better and worse...It’s given me so many opportunities, but seeing yourself on TV can make you vain. I’ve begun to notice the sun lines on my face and I’ve become more body-conscious.

The film you can watch time and time again...Dumb And Dumber is my feelgood film. I watched it obsessively at university and its basic humour always gives me a warm glow.

The person who has influenced you most...Apart from my parents and my family, it is Sir David Attenborough. As a child, I was enthralled by his programmes – and I still am.

The figure from history for whom you’d most like to buy a pie and a pint...Fidel Castro. I’d ask if he really thinks his revolution has worked.

The piece of wisdom you would pass on to a child...Be comfortable in your own skin. I was extremely shy and lacked confidence as a boy. Everyone else seemed so much better than me, but
becoming more confident changed my life. I only wish it had come sooner.

The unlikely interest that engages your curiosity...Interior design. I’m addicted to interiors magazines and I designed the inside of our house. Marina says I’m a control freak, but I think it’s a reaction to spending so much time overseas. The house is my nest and I want it just so.

The treasured item you lost and wish you could have again...My anonymity; losing it has given me so much, but it has come at a cost.

The unqualified regret you wish you could amend...I wish I’d been with my friend James Cracknell when he had the cycling accident that nearly killed him in America last year. Maybe I could have helped him avoid it.

The poem that touches your soul...Risk by Anonymous. It’s about the importance of taking risks in life. It
underpins everything I believe in. I scrawled it on a wall in the kitchen and I read it if I’m ever in doubt. It ends, ‘Only a person who risks is free.’

The misapprehension about yourself you wish you could erase...That I’m posh. Admittedly I had a privileged childhood, but my father is a Canadian vet and my mother an actress. I am driven to shake off the tag.

The event that altered the course of your life and character...Appearing in Castaway. It was the best year of my life and it changed me for ever.

The crime you would commit knowing you could get away with it...I’d squat in a house overlooking the Atlantic in Devon or Cornwall and then live happily ever after.

The song that means most to you...It is currently Cee Lo Green’s Bright Lights Bigger City. It reminds me of Marina, Ludo and me dancing in the kitchen and it fills me with joy.

The happiest moment you will cherish forever...The day in 2006 when James Cracknell and I arrived in Antigua having rowed 3,000 miles across the Atlantic in 49 days, 19 hours and 8 minutes. It was a moment of undiluted happiness.

The saddest time that shook your world...The loss of loved ones. Each one turns your world upside down.

The unfulfilled ambition that continues to haunt you...I’d like to act. I applied to drama schools but was rejected by them all. My dream is to perform with my mother, the actress Julia Foster.

The philosophy that underpins your life...Add life to your days, not days to your life is one of my driving forces.

The order of service at your funeral...I’d want an extract from Captain Scott’s diary, ‘What lots and lots I could tell
you of this journey. How much better has it been than lounging in too great
comfort at home.’ Then maybe everyone would dance to Cee Lo Green.

The way you want to be remembered...For making a difference.

The plug...Ben Fogle’s memoir, The Accidental Adventurer, is out on 1 September (Bantam Press, £18.99).

 

Adventurer & TV Presenter Ben Fogle

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Published: 6 August 2011

Slade frontman Noddy Holder:

The prized possession you value above all others...My parents’ wooden Art Deco clock. It never lost a minute until it suddenly stopped in 1988 at the exact time my dad Jack died – 3.30pm.

The unqualified regret you wish you could amend... That I can’t get the four members of Slade to be mates again. I got us together three years ago but it was a disaster and all the old grievances came out, like money and things that were said years ago. We’re in our 60s now and it’s sad we can’t laugh about our amazing 25 years together.

The way you would spend your fantasy 24 hours, with no travel restrictions...Breakfast at Zabar’s deli in New York, then shopping in Milan with my missus, Susan. We’d fly to Paris for lunch and visit the museums. Then to London for afternoon tea at Claridge’s before cocktails on my boat in Portugal, then New York again for a Broadway musical. After that, my old mates and I would eat a curry in Walsall in the West Midlands, where we grew up. Then we’d go on a bar crawl in New Orleans.

The temptation you wish you could resist...I have never been one for resisting temptation – and it’s got me into a lot of trouble.

The book that holds an everlasting resonance...The Moonstone by Wilkie Collins (1868), which I read at school when I was 12. It was the first detective novel.

The priority activity if you were the Invisible Man for a day...I’d sneak into Jennifer Lopez’s dressing room and watch her getting ready for a gig. She’s talented and has a great booty!

The way fame and fortune has changed you, for better and worse...My mates reckon I haven’t changed but, as an extrovert, Susan says I don’t consider that some people are shy.

The person who has influenced you most...My dad. He was a window cleaner and an amateur club singer. When I was seven, in 1953, he dragged me on stage at our local working men’s club to sing I Believe by Frankie Laine. I loved my first taste of applause.

The figure from history for whom you’d most like to buy a pie and a pint...Al Jolson. He was the ultimate performer and the king of Broadway.

The piece of wisdom you would pass on to a child...The only thing that gets you anywhere in life is hard graft.

The unlikely interest that engages your curiosity...Reading about history. I was thinking of being a history teacher before I got into singing.

The treasured item you lost and wish you could have again...My Gibson SG stage guitar, which was stolen at a gig in the 70s. Years later, I got a letter from a singer who was big in the 80s, admitting he stole it. He was in rehab and part of his recovery was to seek forgiveness for past sins. I didn’t reply as the guitar was so special I couldn’t forgive him. It wouldn’t be fair to name him.

The film you can watch time and time again...Cabaret with Liza Minnelli. I saw it in London in 1972 and loved it so much I went again the next night.

The unending quest that drives you on...I have a thirst for knowledge and new experiences.

The poem that touches your soul...I’ve always been tickled by Spike Milligan’s: ‘The boy stood on the burning deck/ Whence all but he had fled/The twit!’

The misapprehension about yourself you wish you could erase...That I’m always dressed in platform shoes and a top hat with mirrors, shouting, ‘Merry Christmas!’ If I’m not dressed like that, people are genuinely disappointed.

The event that altered the course of your life and character...I toured sleazy clubs in Germany in a band called The Mavericks when I was 17 and learned all about sex, drugs and rock ‘n’ roll. I went out a boy and came back a man.

The crime you would commit knowing you could get away with it...I’d steal documents that expose corruption in our Government and the banks.

The song that means most to you...The Girl Can’t Help It by Little Richard. I was ten when I saw him perform it and knew then I wanted to be a rock singer.

The happiest moment you will cherish forever...Aside from seeing my three children born, it was getting the band’s first No.1 with Coz I Luv You in 1971. It gave us the hunger for more.

The saddest time that shook your world...My dad dying hit me hard. He was 77 and had been ill for a while, but it took me a long time to get over it.

The unfulfilled ambition that continues to haunt you...I wish the band had been bigger in America. They weren’t ready for us, but it doesn’t actually haunt me – it’s just rock ‘n’ roll.

The philosophy that underpins your life...My dad used to say, ‘You can only eat one meal and wear one pair of shoes at a time. If you’ve got that, be grateful for it. Everything else is icing on the cake.’ He was right.

The order of service at your funeral...I’d have Al Jolson’s Let Me Sing And I’m Happy and all my mates making speeches saying how wonderful I was. I’d leave a humongous tab behind the bar with loads of Guinness.

The way you want to be remembered...As someone who put a smile on everybody’s face and a tune in their hearts.

The Plug...Noddy features in Sky Arts At Birmingham Home Of Metal on Sky Arts 1 HD on 31 August.

 

Slade Frontman Noddy Holder

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Published: 30 July 2011

Presenter Fiona Phillips:

The prized possession you value above all others...A first edition of Thomas Hardy’s novel Jude The Obscure from 1895. I bought it at Sotheby’s for £15,000 in 2002. I was heavily pregnant and hormonal, so I kept bidding.

The unqualified regret you wish you could amend...I wish I had listened more carefully to my parents’ stories. My mum, Amy, died from Alzheimer’s in 2006 and my dad, Phil, is 76 and currently suffering from it, too. All their memories are lost forever.

The way you would spend your fantasy 24 hours, with no travel restrictions... My life is so wrapped up in work and other people that it would be bliss to have 24 hours alone being pampered at a spa in Thailand. I’d also like to visit Spain to chat to José Mourinho. I’m a big Chelsea fan and I thought he was so sexy and stylish. I miss him.

The temptation you wish you could resist...Starbucks coffee. I can’t go a day without an extra hot skinny latte.

The book that holds an everlasting resonance...Jude The Obscure. I was 18 when I read it and I connected strongly with Sue Bridehead, Jude’s lover. I was captivated because she was her own woman.

The priority activity if you were the Invisible Woman for a day...I’d watch my 12-year-old son at school to find out what he does all day, as he doesn’t seem to learn much. He’s more interested in entertaining the class.

The way fame and fortune has changed you, for better and worse...Being well-known has not essentially changed me, but working on GMTV affected my life dramatically. Everything was geared towards getting up early, so I lost contact with friends and spent the entire time tired. I’m much happier now.

The film you can watch time and time again...Chitty Chitty Bang Bang. It reminds me of fun times as a child and of my two sons growing up.

The person who has influenced you most...My mum. She was such a warm, open person. Watching her taught me how to communicate, which has always been at the heart of my life.

The figure from history for whom you’d most like to buy a pie and a pint...Emmeline Pankhurst. I am in awe of what the suffragettes did.

The piece of wisdom you would pass on to a child...Barack Obama’s mother said this to him and my mum said it to me: ‘Put yourself in the other person’s shoes before you do anything.’

The unlikely interest that engages your curiosity...Politics. I read political memoirs and follow the machinations of Westminster like a junkie.

The treasured item you lost and wish you could have again...A thief stole my grandmother’s engagement ring, which she left me when she died, and a watch my parents gave me for my 21st birthday, from my dressing room in 1988 when I was doing my first TV show for BBC Norwich. I was so upset.

The unending quest that drives you on...To keep working hard. My parents instilled a strong work ethic in me and thank God they did because I’ve got a huge mortgage to pay off!

The poem that touches your soul...He Wishes For The Cloths Of Heaven by W.B. Yeats. The last line gets me with its vulnerability: ‘Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.’

The misapprehension about yourself you wish you could erase...I was always irritated that everything written about me included the word ‘bubbly’. It has connotations of being vacuous and shallow. Urgh! I like drinking bubbly, but not being perceived as it.

The event that altered the course of your life and character...When my mum was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s in 1999. It was the beginning of an immense grieving process.

The crime you would commit knowing you could get away with it...I’d be a Peeping Tom in Chelsea’s dressing room at Stamford Bridge.

The song that means most to you...Louis Armstrong’s What A Wonderful World. It reminds me of my happy
childhood and always moves me.

The happiest moment you will cherish forever...When I was pregnant with my first son [now 11; her second son is eight], I feared I wouldn’t bond with him. That first night in hospital, I fell in love. I was so happy – and relieved.

The saddest time that shook your world...When my dad attacked my mum because he couldn’t cope with her Alzheimer’s. In that moment, my childhood dissolved and I became the
parent. It was totally out of character for Dad and we found out subsequently that he was also suffering the early stages of Alzheimer’s.

The unfulfilled ambition that continues to haunt you...To do everything I can to make my children happy.

The philosophy underpinning your life...Do unto others as you would have them do unto you

The order of service at your funeral...I don’t have an ego that requires a big send-off. For all I care, my family can put me in a cardboard box and bury me in the garden!

The way you want to be remembered...I simply would like my values to live on in my children.

The plug...Fiona’s memoir, Before I Forget, is published by Arrow, priced £7.99.

 

Presenter Fiona Phillips

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Published: 23 July 2011

Impressionist Alistair McGowan:

The prized possession you value above all others...I’m not particularly materialistic, but I love my king-size sleigh bed. I am away working a lot and always miss it as it’s so comfortable.

The unqualified regret you wish you could amend...Giving up piano lessons at the age of ten because they clashed with football practice.

The way you would spend your fantasy 24 hours, with no travel restrictions...My happiest days are unplanned and full of surprises. We live in a world that ‘books in advance’ and seem to have forgotten the joy of spontaneity. So, my perfect day would be one that simply unravelled with new experiences, or forgotten old ones. That said, at some point it would involve cheese!

The temptation you wish you could resist...I’ve a terrible habit of turning round to look at attractive ladies’ bottoms. As I’ve got older, I can wait longer but, eventually, it must stop!

The book that holds an everlasting resonance...I read David Nicholls’ novel One Day last year and was deeply moved by it. It echoes so much of my own life – relationships, university, and the ups and downs of success. It is the story of my generation growing up.

The priority activity if you were the Invisible Man for a day...I’d cut the headphone wires of those whose music bleeds out and spoils myriad journeys and moments for everyone else.

The way fame and fortune has changed you, for better and worse...I’m much nicer to people because they are nicer to me. Sadly, I laugh less at the telly because I watch comedy analytically.

The film you can watch time and time again...12 Angry Men with Henry Fonda. I’m always moved to tears each time he gets someone to change their vote in that jury room.

The person who has influenced you most...My father, Mac, who sadly died from a heart attack in 2003. He gave me his love of sport, but also his values. He had a wonderful calmness and a belief you should treat everyone the same. He was a great dad and an honest man who I’m proud to try to emulate.

The figure from history for whom you’d most like to buy a pie and a pint...The French composer Erik Satie, who gave us some of the most beautiful pieces of piano music ever written – and some horrors.

The piece of wisdom you would pass on to a child...Remember that all adults who aren’t your parents prefer it when you are QUIET!

The unlikely interest that engages your curiosity...Snooker. I first played it when I was 15, but I’m still rubbish. My highest break is 27, but I love the ongoing challenge. It’s like a language I have yet to learn.

The treasured item you lost and wish you could have again...I had a beautiful film poster of Empire Of The Sun from 1987. When [fellow impressionist] Ronni Ancona and I lived together in the Nineties, she told me film posters were ‘studenty’ and made me throw it away. I still miss it.

The unending quest that drives you on...I try to never waste time.

The poem that touches your soul...An August Midnight by Thomas Hardy. It’s about insects of the night and the last line – ‘They know earth secrets that know not I’ – is one of the reasons behind my environmentalism. Animals can do so much, yet we think we have a right to this planet above them.

The misapprehension about yourself you wish you could erase...That I am Angus Deayton. I’m always being mistaken for him. Once, when Angus was having a tough time in the Press, a taxi driver thought I was him and I couldn’t be bothered to correct him. He then let me off the fare as he felt sorry for me!

The event that altered the course of your life and character...I struggled for two years to make sense of drama school, then a visiting director – the late Malcolm Edwardes – simply told me to only speak when I was ready. That unlocked the secret of acting.

The crime you would commit knowing you could get away with it...I’d rob the bank accounts of everyone on the Rich List and redistribute their money.

The song that means most to you...Two Little Boys sung by Rolf Harris. I heard it aged five and it was the first time I listened to words and knew they were sad. Even now, it moves me hugely.

The happiest moment you will cherish forever...The end of recording the first series of Alistair McGowan’s Big Impression in 2000. It was a long-held dream finally realised.

The saddest time that shook your world...The death of my father. On a lighter note, I always feel bereft every year when Wimbledon ends.

The unfulfilled ambition that continues to haunt you...To have a consistently good tennis backhand.

The philosophy that underpins your life...Treat others as you would like to be treated yourself.

The order of service at your funeral...I leave everything to the last minute, so I’m not sure, but it may end with Sing, Sing, Sing by Benny Goodman. It lifts any heart on any occasion.

The way you want to be remembered...For being a good person who made the most of everything.

The Plug...I’ll be playing Henry Higgins in Pygmalion at the Garrick Theatre from 15 August. By George!

 

 

Impressionist Alistair McGowan

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Published: 18 July 2011

Presenter Christine Bleakley:

 

The treasured item you lost and wish you could have again...A beautiful gold ring with amethyst stones my parents bought me for my 21st birthday.  It got lost when I moved from Northern Ireland to London in 2007.  I was devastated and still hope it will pop up in a sock drawer.

The unending quest that drives you on...To be completely independent. My mum instilled that in me from an early age.  She wasn’t a driven career woman herself but she understands the freedom a woman has when she doesn’t depend on anyone else. 

The way you would spend your fantasy 24 hours, with no  time travel restrictions...I visited Paris for the first time last March with Frank [her fiancée, Chelsea footballer Frank Lampard] and every second was magical.  I’d start there, then head to Val D’Isere for skiing, then to Italy to top up the tan and for some glorious food.  Frank would be with me, with family and some mates, too.

The temptation you wish you could resist...Being the last to leave a party. I always want to dance with the last few hangers on when the band is packing up.

The book that holds an everlasting resonance...The Crucible.  I became fascinated by all things Arthur Miller after reading this play.  I also fell in love with Daniel Day-Lewis and Winona Ryder after watching them in the film.  Painfully magical.

The priority activity if you were the Invisible Woman for a day...I’d follow traffic wardens and whip on newly paid up tickets in cars just before they issue a fine to an unsuspecting driver. 

The way fame and fortune has changed you, for better and worse...I could never comfortably link my name with the term fame and fortune, but being on the telly does have its bonuses.  People are always very chatty and friendly when they see you out.  The downside is that close friends find it hard if I end up talking about the show with other people when are meant to be catching up.

The film you can watch time and time again...I adore comedies with a storyline you can relate to and I love Meet The Fockers. Who doesn’t get nervous meeting the in-laws? 

The person who has influenced you most...My parents have been incredibly influential, as has Adrian Chiles, but if I had to pick one person it would be Frank.  He is a great man with a lot of integrity and has an inner strength few of us possess.  I admire his work ethic most – it’s second to none.

The figure from history for whom you’d most like to buy a pie and a pint...Marilyn Monroe.  I’d have a million questions, but I’d ask if she knew the effect she would have by standing on that grate with the air blowing up her dress.  I guess the answer would be Yes!

The piece of wisdom you would pass on to a child...Nuala McKeever, a well respected Northern Irish writer and comic, once said: "Christine, jump and the net shall appear."  At the time, I was worrying about moving to London and the second she uttered those words I had clarity and moved.

The unlikely interest that engages your curiosity...I studied A-Level art and nearly went to art college, so painting with oils is a real passion. I can lose days in front of a canvas – it is the ultimate escape.

The prized possession you value above all others...A Rolex watch I bought myself when I moved to London.  It wasn’t overly expensive but it represents a scary and lonely time.   I had never lived away from home so it was an enormous step, personally and professionally, but I’m so glad I took the plunge.

The unqualified regret you wish you could amend...I really don’t have any regrets.  If I make a decision that doesn’t go according to plan then I learn from it and move on.  I don’t dwell on regrets.

The poem that touches your soul...The Lady of Shalott by Lord Alfred Tennyson is beautiful. 

The misapprehension about yourself you wish you could erase...That I just popped up on telly out of nowhere.  I’ve actually been working in television since I was 17.

The event that altered the course of your life and character...Moving to London to work on The One Show.  I still pinch myself sometimes because I can’t believe my luck.  

The crime you would commit knowing you could get away with it...I can’t bear people who litter.  If I caught someone throwing stuff out of their car, I’d push the car into a hole and fill it with concrete.

The song that means most to you... Van Morrison’s Brown Eyed Girl.  My dad used to sing it to me when I was young.  I’m still his brown-eyed girl.

The happiest moment you will cherish forever...My sister Nicola’s wedding day in 2007.  I cried with happiness and pride for 12 hours solid.

The saddest time that shook your world...I vividly remember my grandmother passing away when I was ten.   I had to sit my 11-plus exam not long after.  I held a little picture of her in my hand the entire way through the exam. I passed and no doubt she had something to do with that. 

The unfulfilled ambition that continues to haunt you...I really don’t have one.  My mum taught me to appreciate what you’ve got, rather than mourn what you haven’t got.  And she always says:  Stay humble and you won’t have far to fall.

The philosophy that underpins your life...What goes around comes around.  Every time.

The order of service at your funeral...A grand buffet, with traditional Irish oysters and Guinness for good measure.  Loads of comedians and great music.  Comic Leigh Francis could host proceedings. The way you want to be remembered...Happy, genuine and trustworthy.

The Plug...Christine co-hosts ITV1’s Daybreak with Adrian Chiles weekdays from 6-8.30am 

 

 

Presenter Christine Bleakley

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Published: 9 July 2011

Proms presenter Katie Derham:

The treasured item you lost and wish you could have again...Our sailing boat, Night Swimming. It represents family time, freedom and relaxation. Usually you can’t get a mobile signal when we’re sailing – bliss – and nothing beats the smell of bacon cooking in the sea air.

The unqualified regret you wish you could amend...That my mother, Margaret, never met my younger daughter, Eleanor. She died from Alzheimer’s eight years ago when she was only 61.

The way you would spend your fantasy 24 hours, with no travel restrictions...Breakfast of honey on toast and tea at home with my husband John and our daughters, Natasha, 11, and Eleanor, five, followed by a walk through the bluebells in a wood somewhere. Then to Paris, drinking cafés au lait and trying to be chic and nonchalant. Afterwards, we’d sail to an island near the colonial town of Paraty on the coast of Brazil for a lunch of grilled prawns. I’d spend the afternoon mucking around with the children in the sea, then head to Rio de Janeiro with John for caipirinha cocktails and to dance all night.

The temptation you wish you could resist...Taking an extra five minutes’ snooze in the morning, or having an extra coffee. I’m habitually, shamefully late.

The book that holds an everlasting resonance...The Lord Of The Rings. I was attracted to its massive girth at the age of nine because I wanted to be reading the longest book in school. I’ve read it at least 20 times, yet still get caught up in its fantasy and romance.  

The priority activity if you were the Invisible Woman for a day...I’d follow litter louts and put their sweet wrappers back in their pockets.

The way fame and fortune has changed you, for better and worse...I’m uncomfortable with the sycophancy that can come with fame. But I’ve met the most extraordinary people and witnessed some phenomenal talent at work.

The film you can watch time and time again...The American President, with Annette Bening and Michael Douglas. It’s cheesy but hugely enjoyable. The person who has influenced you most...My mother-in-law, Marion, is a constant inspiration. She always has a smile and time for everyone.

The figure from history for whom you’d most like to buy a pie and a pint...Mozart. I’d ask him: How do you do it? Where does the music come from?

The piece of wisdom you would pass on to a child...Stand up straight and smile. Confidence and friendliness are catching.

The unlikely interest that engages your curiosity...I received a beehive for my birthday so the next stop is the hat, suit and my own swarm. Then friends and family should prepare for sweet gifts with honeyed words and bad puns.

The treasured item you lost and wish you could have again...A scrapbook of little notes from friends, theatre programmes and invitations from my time at Magdalene College, Cambridge. It disappeared in a house move in the mid-1990s. I wanted to flick through it with my daughters, but perhaps it’s best they hear the edited version.

The unending quest that drives you on...To be effortlessly organised. The poem that touches your soul...

Music by Walter de la Mare. It has a great line that pretty much sums up the power of music, ‘When music sounds gone is the earth I know, And all her lovely things even lovelier grow’.

The misapprehension about yourself you wish you could erase...That I’m a goody two-shoes. There’s an assumption that anyone who’s ever read them news was head girl or boy, always wins pub quizzes, and never loses their cool. I fail on all of the above!

The event that altered the course of your life and character...Meeting my husband at a party in Cambridge when I was 23. I’d gate-crashed and he pretended to be from security to talk to me. Life became a lot more fun and hasn’t stopped yet. I’ve never met anyone with more ideas, drive or kindness and with a more ridiculously infectious laugh.

The crime you would commit, knowing you could get away with it...It would be something against speed cameras. I want to be trusted to drive responsibly.

The song that means most to youBachianas Brasileiras No. 5 by Heitor Villa-Lobos. It doesn’t have words so, technically, isn’t a song, but it makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.

The happiest moment you will cherish forever...Nothing will beat the births of my girls, but being with my sister when she had her first child comes close.

The saddest time that shook your world...The death of my mother. What a shocking, criminal waste of a very bright and funny woman.

The unfulfilled ambition that continues to haunt you...To sit at a piano during a party and take requests.

The philosophy that underpins your life...Be kind, work hard, have fun.

The order of service at your funeral...Ostentatious black plumed horses. The Intermezzo from Pietro Mascagni’s Cavalleria Rusticana, then Up, Up And Away by Nancy Sinatra, followed by an awfully big party.

The way you want to be remembered...As someone who made people smile.

The plug...Katie Derham presents The Proms for BBC2 and Radio 3 from Friday

 

 

Proms Presenter Katie Derham

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Published: 2 July 2011

Scientist Lord Robert Winston:

The treasured item you lost and wish you could have again...I do not become too attached to things.  If I lose something, I simply move on.

The unending quest that drives you on...To keep on learning about all manner of things.

The way you would spend your fantasy 24 hours, with no travel restrictions...I’d spend all day skiing alone in the French Alps.  I love the remoteness of the mountains.  I would helicopter to the top of La Vallee Blanche and ski the incredible off-piste decent to Chamonix. I would have dinner there with a bottle of great Burgundy, preferably a La Tache by Romanée-Conti, although that is hard to find these days because the Chinese have bought so much.

The temptation you wish you could resist...I love a really good whiskey, like a 25 year Macallan single malt.  It makes me pleasantly happy and sleepy.

The book that holds an everlasting resonance...Michel de Montaigne’s Book of Essays.  He was a monumentally brilliant French writer in the 16th century whose essays are gems that encapsulate important philosophy.  I urge people to read them.

The priority activity if you were the Invisible Man for a day...I would want to understand Farsi so could I eavesdrop on the Iranian government.  It seems to threaten so much we hold dear in the West, so I’d be riveted to understand what its leaders really think about us.

The way fame and fortune has changed you, for better and worse...I am concerned about the whole cult of celebrity.  I don’t think I am famous, but I do get recognized and asked to sign bits of paper. Being well known has enabled me to support more charitable activities, but I am probably more materialistic than I should be.  I am one for extravagance and probably live more expensively and wastefully that I need to.  

The film you can watch time and time again...Fanny and Alexander, directed by Ingmar Bergman.  It is about the world seen through a child’s eyes and is a very human film.  It is five hours long, but is absolutely enchanting and one of the greatest films ever made.   

The person who has influenced you most...Professor John McClure Browne.  He was very important in promoting my research into reproductive biology at Hammersmith hospital in the 1970s.  He died of a stroke in 1978.

The figure from history for whom you’d most like to buy a pie and a pint...I don’t like pies or pints, but I’d have a glass of wine with the Austrian composer Franz Schubert.  He is one of the greatest composers and I’d ask him who he really respected musically.  He was a gregarious person, so he would be good company. 

The piece of wisdom you would pass on to a child...Treat everybody with a pleasant countenance and think the best of them.  Then you will get the best out of them.

 The unlikely interest that engages your curiosity...I have been into building Gauge One sized model steam engines for 30 years.  Steam trains have personalities and I make them from kits and they go around my garden on a 45mm track.

The prized possession you value above all others...My 1935 Bentley.  It is a two-tone 3.5 litre standard saloon in green and cream.  I had one when I was a student in the 1960s but had to sell it when I was short of money.  I have had this one for a couple of years and it goes beautifully.  It is very docile but will go fast enough to keep up with modern traffic.

The unqualified regret you wish you could amend...Not keeping in touch with old friends and nurturing those human contacts.  I miss not knowing what they are doing with their lives.  

The poem that touches your soul...To His Coy Mistress by Andrew Marvel, the 17th century British metaphysical poet.  It is a beautiful poem about love and the brevity of human life.

The misapprehension about yourself you wish you could erase... I don’t know what misapprehensions there are of me.  People are complimentary and nice and I don’t get negative reactions.  Maybe they think I am nicer than I really am, but I wouldn’t want to erase that!

The event that altered the course of your life and character...Marrying my wife Lira in 1973.  Marriage alters the course of one’s life more than anything else we do.   

The crime you would commit knowing you could get away with it...I would shoot Sepp Blatter – preferably painfully, with several shots.  It is shocking how he has managed FIFA and brought a very important international game into utter disrepute.  The culture of cheating and dishonesty in football is spread by the massively bad influence of people like Blatter.  

The song that means most to you...Come in Quest’ora Bruna  – How in the Morning Light – from Verdi’s opera Simone Boccanegra.  It is Verdi writing at his absolute refined best.  The character, Amelia, sings as she watches the dawn over the waters of Venice.  It is a wilting, evocative song that captures the spectacular light of Venice.

The happiest moment you will cherish forever...Leaving St Paul’s School in London when I was 18.  I enjoyed it there but leaving was an extraordinarily interesting moment.  I suddenly felt grown up and, above all, free. (italics)

The saddest time that shook your world...My father’s death when I was nine in 1949.  He was a polymath.  He played the violin and was a championship chess player and was bigger than life.  He died of a brain abscess when he was only 42, having lived a life that most would not achieve at 62.

The unfulfilled ambition that continues to haunt you...To build a model steam engine that is big enough to pull me around the garden.

The philosophy that underpins your life...Value what you have and do not strive for things you cannot obtain.  That is a sure way to unhappiness.

The order of service at your funeral...Jewish funerals are fairly unshowy affairs.  We do not play music or have much of an order of service, so I don’t really think about my funeral.

The way you want to be remembered...As somebody who valued humanity, children, and our society.

The Plug...Lord Winston appears at the Harrogate Summer Festival on July 7.   For tickets visit www.harrogate-festivals.org.uk.

 

Scientist Lord Robert Winston

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Published: 25 June 2011

Dragons’ Den viper Deborah Meaden:

The treasured item you lost and wish you could have again...The only thing I’ve lost that really meant something to me was the gold ring my husband Paul bought me for Christmas in 2005. I took it off during lunch and I think it got swept away with the table debris.

I was lucky enough to find it two years later in the veg patch! Goodness knows how it got there, maybe in the compost?

The unending quest that drives you on...Completing my list of ‘Things To Do Before I Die’. Recently in Australia I swam with whale sharks and rounded up cattle on horseback, but I’m always adding new ones.

The way you would spend your fantasy 24 hours, with no time travel restrictions...All day with Paul. We’d wake to birdsong at Sarara Camp in Kenya before climbing a Mayan temple in Guatemala, to watch the sun rise. A walk beside Iguazu falls in Argentina, then lunch at Balthazar, Manhattan. In the afternoon I’d go horse riding on the beach at Costa Rica’s Nicoya Peninsula. I’d close a business deal by phone, then celebrate with a gin and tonic on the roof of the Lake Palace Hotel in Udaipur, India. Dinner at our Somerset home with friends and family.

The temptation you wish you could resist...Googling everything. I can spend hours on the internet, learning lots but retaining very little.

The book that holds an everlasting resonance...To Kill A Mockingbird by Harper Lee. I read it when I was 12 and found the racial prejudice so shocking.

The priority activity if you were the Invisible Woman for a day...I don’t like eavesdropping or prying, so I’m afraid I’d have to make myself known.

The way fame and fortune has changed you, for better and worse...For better, having a voice to influence change for good. For worse, it is harder to appreciate things once they’re easy to come by.

The film you can watch time and time again... Moulin Rouge!, a movie with such amazing visuals and soundtrack, it doesn’t matter if you know the ending.

The person who influenced you most...My older sister Gail, who says what needs to be said, whether I like it or not.

The figure from history for whom you’d most like to buy a pie and a pint...Lady Hester Stanhope, niece of William Pitt The Younger. She was his confidante and had adventures in Arabia. I’d like to chat about her unconventional life.

The piece of wisdom you would pass on to a child...Simply owning money is meaningless – it is the good that you can do with it that really counts.

The unlikely interest that engages your curiosity...Cooking. Unlikely, because I haven’t cooked a meal in 25 years. Curious, because I am fascinated by the Zen-like trance Paul goes into when he is creating a dish.

The prized possession you value above all others...A paper collage of my cat Willow, who died. It is by the South African artist Peter Clarke and is made from memorabilia such as a postcard of the church where I was married and my Grade 1 piano certificate.It is irreplaceable.

The unqualified regret you wish you could amend...Not taking a gap year and travelling. I left college at 18 and was obsessed with going into business.

The poem that touches your soul...Ozymandias by Percy Shelley. We did it at school and it made me realise poetry wasn’t just a bunch of words that sometimes rhymed and sometimes didn’t.

The misapprehension about yourself you wish you could erase...That I never smile. I smile all the time, but giggling in the Den would be disrespectful.

The event that altered the course of your life and character...Being sent to boarding school (The Hall School in Wincanton, Somerset) at seven. It was the first time I felt restricted and I hated it. A year ago I drove past where the school used to be and still felt a sense of dread.

The crime you would commit knowing you could get away with it...Driving my Porsche at top speed with the hood down through the Scottish Highlands.

The song that means most to you...Jackie Wilson’s Higher And Higher. I played it over and over when I met Paul in the mid-1980s. He didn’t complain, so I knew we were going to last.

The happiest moment you will cherish forever...In Kenya in 2010, when I saw cheetahs up close for the first time.

The saddest time that shook your world...In 2009 I was sent a video of a dog being skinned alive for its fur. I’ve never been able to forget it, and it galvanised my position on the fur trade.

The unfulfilled ambition that continues to haunt you...To learn to fly a helicopter.

I didn’t have the time or money when I was younger and now I probably don’t have the reactions or the eyesight!

The philosophy that underpins your life...Keep it simple. That way you can get more done.

The order of service at your funeral...Cry a little, laugh a lot, then turn up the music and dance.

The way you want to be remembered...As someone who could laugh at Harry Enfield’s ‘Grumpy Woman’ take on me, cry through Schindler’s List and not eat fish for a year to make a point about sustainability.

The Plug...Deborah is an ambassador for WWF UK, which is celebrating 50 years of helping people and nature. Join in at www.wwf.org.uk/50

 

Dragons’ Den Viper Deborah Meaden

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Published: 18 June 2011

Charity campaigner Sarah Brown:

The treasured item you lost and wish you could have again...My grandmother’s gold garnet ring, which I wore after she died from breast cancer in 1980 when she was 70 and I was 16. It slipped from my finger as I ran to my final exam at Bristol University in 1986 and I couldn’t stop to look.

The unending quest that drives you on...Making a difference in any way I can. You can’t control so much in life, but you can end each day knowing you’ve done something positive.

The way you would spend your fantasy 24 hours, with no travel restrictions...Gordon is back and forth to Westminster and we both travel for charity work, so I’d want us and our two boys, John and Fraser, to be together in Fife – with total travel restrictions. We’d walk on the beach, play and just be at home.

The temptation you wish you could resist...Chocolate. I eat it for energy when I’m tired, but I know it’s not a proper substitute for sleep.

The book that holds an everlasting resonance...Stories Of Mothers Lost, by the White Ribbon Alliance. It’s about mums around the world who died in pregnancy or childbirth.

To know they died unnecessarily is devastating.

The priority activity if you were the Invisible Woman for a day...I’d sneak on to the set of the television series Glee and sing and do all the dance moves without embarrassment.

The way fame and fortune has changed you, for better and worse...We have no fortune and, let me stress, no complaints! For better, being in the public eye has forced me to learn new things, like public speaking.

For worse, I am less trusting of some people, who write and say things they know to be untrue.

The film you can watch time and time again...Billy Elliot. Its writer Lee Hall is a friend. He captured the betrayal of the hopes of a generation in the 1980s.

The person who has influenced you most...My mum, Pauline, who is in her 70s. She made me believe that just because there’s a glass ceiling, it doesn’t mean you have an excuse for not pushing your head against it until it shatters.

The figure from history for whom you’d most like to buy a pie and a pint...Florence Nightingale. I’d reassure her that nurses remain heroes and that plenty of us are fighting to ensure they get the pay, training and respect they deserve. I’d also fill her in on the creation of the NHS!

The piece of wisdom you would pass on to a child...How the world treats you should not determine how you treat the world.

The unlikely interest that engages your curiosity...I’ve become interested in the history of hats since going to British milliner Stephen Jones’ showcase at the V&A Museum in 2009.

The prized possession you value above all others...The diamond eternity ring Gordon gave me. It is engraved with our initials and those of our children.

The unqualified regret you wish you could amend...I wish I’d spoken out earlier, more frequently and louder when people told blatant lies about Gordon.

The poem that touches your soul...A Wish For My Children by the late Irish poet Evangeline Paterson. Gordon quoted it at Damilola Taylor’s memorial service and it moved me. Every parent can relate to the hope that your children are safe, while wanting them to be out in the world realising their potential.

The misapprehension about yourself you wish you could erase...That I ‘gave up work’! It didn’t feel like that to me and I’m sure it doesn’t to any busy mum, charity worker or campaigner. The event that altered the course of your life and character...

In memory of my baby daughter who died when she was ten days old, we set up the Jennifer Brown Research Laboratory. Through that, I know science will transform our understanding of what can go wrong in pregnancy and childbirth, and avoid the heartbreak of losing a longed-for baby.

The crime you would commit knowing you could get away with it...I can’t think of the specifics but it would be Robin Hood-inspired.

The song that means most to you...George Harrison’s While My Guitar Gently Weeps. I’ve always loved it, no reason, just do.

The happiest moment you will cherish forever...Aside from the births of my children, it is Gordon’s marriage proposal on a windswept beach in Fife on Millennium New Year’s Day. The saddest time that shook your world...

Losing Jennifer was – and is – the saddest time for Gordon and me. We have so much happiness with our two sons, but we miss her every day.

The unfulfilled ambition that continues to haunt you...Making sure each day that everyone in our family is learning something new, contributing something positive and dreaming something big.

The philosophy underpinning your life...Everyone is unique and precious (even the superficially disagreeable) and you must recognise this in yourself, too. The order of service at your funeral...

I’d let my family choose, as they are the ones who will need to say goodbye.

The way you want to be remembered...That I tried to make a lot of small changes add up to a big difference.

The plug...Sarah’s memoir Behind The Black Door is published by Ebury. For information about the Jennifer Brown Research Laboratory, visit www.piggybankkids.org

© Sarah Brown 2011

 

 

Charity Campaigner Sarah Brown

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Published: 11 June 2011

DJ and TV presenter Zoe Ball:

The treasured item you lost and wish you could have again...My diamond engagement ring, which Norman [DJ Norman Cook] gave me in 1999. I was too scared to wear it because I’m so scatty, so I hid it in a drawer. Either Norman or I re-hid it and we’ve never found it. I fear it has been given to a charity shop in an old handbag.

The unending quest that drives you on...To be better at backgammon. Everyone beats me, but one day I’ll show them!

The way you would spend your fantasy 24 hours, with no travel restrictions...Wake up at Babington House, the hotel in Somerset where we got married, as a big family bundle in our PJs. Full English breakfast in bed watching Sky’s Soccer AM. Go to the beach at Nantucket, New England, for seal spotting and rounders. Clam chowder and crab for lunch, followed by a bike ride along Brighton seafront before shopping in New York. Dinner at Nobu in Mayfair, then a wander through Paris before hitting Space nightclub in Ibiza with Norm and Carl Cox DJing. Then we’d sit around the Stone Circle at Glastonbury Festival watching the sunrise.

The temptation you wish you could resist...Puddings. I wish I was slimmer, but cheesecake, crumble and custard, panna cotta… I love ’em all!

The book that holds an everlasting resonance...The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald is the perfect novel. It is desperately tragic. I’ve read it many times, but it still brings a tear to my eye.

The priority activity if you were the Invisible Woman for a day...I’d listen to my ten-year-old-son Woody and his friends chat. Such amazing minds, untainted by the toil of work and responsibility.

The way fame and fortune has changed you, for better and worse...I’m still the same old fool I was at school. I love my job and can’t think of many negatives, apart from the paranoia about my looks ageing by the second.

The film you can watch time and time again...What’s Up Doc with Barbra Streisand and Ryan O’Neal. It’s hilarious and I’ll never tire of it.

The person who has influenced you most...My Grandad Fred. He was the warmest, funniest man. He was a wonderful husband to my Nan, Rene, a loving father, and the best grandad a girl could wish for. I wish he could have met Nelly, our one-year-old. But I’m sure he is dancing in the stars with Nan.

The figure from history for whom you’d most like to buy a pie and a pint...Bette Davis. She could act the socks off anybody. I’d grill her about old Hollywood and her nemesis Joan Crawford.

The piece of wisdom you would pass on to a child...You give a little love and it all comes back to you.

The unlikely interest that engages your curiosity...Lego building. I’d happily do it for hours with Woody – usually to avoid cooking or paperwork – and I’m pretty good. I find it therapeutic. My Lego Death Star is a thing of beauty

The prized possession you value above all others...My half-read books. I fall asleep at night after reading a passage. I intend to finish them all one day.

The unqualified regret you wish you could amend...I don’t have regrets, life is too short. You have to think about the positives and move forward.

The poem that touches your soul...On The Ning Nang Nong by Spike Milligan. It is nonsense, but I loved it when I was a child and my kids love it, too.

The misapprehension about yourself you wish you could erase...That I’ll be the best dancer at a wedding, just because I did Strictly Come Dancing. Without my partner Ian Waite, I’m all at sea and all I can do is ‘Mum Dancing’.

The event that altered the course of your life and character...Becoming a mum. There is no greater joy than watching your children grow, learn and laugh.

The crime you would commit knowing you could get away with it...I’d drive my car at full pelt down the M23 on the way home from work.

The song that means most to you...Head, Shoulders, Knees And Toes. Nelly has learnt the actions and it’s too cute.

The happiest moment you will cherish forever...I have been spoilt for happy memories in my life. To me, all little family moments are priceless.

The saddest time that shook your world...Losing my best friend Jolanda in a car accident when she was 17. Only now, as a mother, can I appreciate how her death affected her parents. The kids and I always say goodnight to Jolanda in the stars. I’m not religious but I like to believe she’s up there watching out for my kids.

The unfulfilled ambition that continues to haunt you...To finish my English degree. I dropped out of university to work, but I’m hoping to do it one day.

The philosophy underpinning your life...All you need is Love. Love is all you need.

The order of service at your funeral...If You Want To Sing Out, Sing Out by Cat Stevens and Happy Feet by Kermit The Frog. Then everyone singing Eric and Ernie’s Bring Me Sunshine. Tears acceptable, dancing compulsory.

The way you want to be remembered...As a daft but loving mother who tangoed ’til the end.

The plug...Zoe Ball presents the Isle of Wight Festival on Sky Arts and Sky 3D, today at 10pm and tomorrow at 9pm. Visit www.sky.com/arts.

 

DJ And TV Presenter Zoe Ball

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Published: 4 June 2011

Chef Gary Rhodes:

The treasured item you lost and wish you could have again...A bespoke Giorgio Armani suit that cost £2,000 in 2006. I pressed the trousers one day in a mad rush, and burnt a hole in them. My favourite suit was lost for ever.

The unending quest that drives you on...To achieve consistency and excellence in all aspects of my life.

The way you would spend your fantasy 24 hours, with no travel restrictions...Breakfast in Grenada in the Caribbean with my wife Jennie and our boys, Samuel and George.

Lunch on a yacht off the South of France, entertaining friends and family with great food and wine, being serenaded by Stevie Wonder. The evening at Old Trafford as Manchester United pull off a stunning victory.

The temptation you wish you could resist...Clothes. I’ve become quite obsessed with shirts and trousers and I have about 60 suits.

The book that holds an everlasting resonance...Down And Out In Paris And London by George Orwell. It describes the pressures of busy kitchens brilliantly. I read it when I was 14 in 1974 and it made me decide to become a chef.

The priority activity if you were the Invisible Man for a day...I’d jump every queue. I hate queuing, particularly for train tickets – why do people need to know the whole timetable?!

The way fame and fortune has changed you, for better and worse...I don’t believe I’ve changed that much. But I’ve learnt that life changes for the better if you’re disciplined and dedicated.

The film you can watch time and time again...The action film Man On Fire with Denzel Washington. It always has me on the edge of my seat.

The person who has influenced you most...Peter Barrett, a tutor at my first catering college in Kent in 1976. He taught me how to respect your team. He’s a close friend and still inspires me.

The figure from history for whom you’d most like to buy a pie and a pint...Martin Luther King. He changed history with his ‘I have a dream’ speech. I’d be honoured to cook for him and hear what he thinks about today’s world.

The piece of wisdom you would pass on to a child...Good manners will never let you down.

The unlikely interest that engages your curiosity...Ironing. I’m so fanatical I iron everything – even if it has already been dry-cleaned!

The prized possession you value above all others...My OBE, which I received for services to the hospitality industry in 2006. I never thought I’d be recognised in such a memorable way.

The unqualified regret you wish you could amend..Selling my dream ‘supercar’ ten years ago, because I joined Damon Hill’s supercar rental club P1. The car was a Lotus Esprit S4s, a one-off test car. It became a family member and I’d buy it back tomorrow if I could.

The poem that touches your soul...It’s not a poem, but this quote from the 18th- century gast ronome Jean Anthelme Brillat-Savarin inspires me: ‘The discovery of a new dish confers more happiness on humanity than the discovery of a new star.’

The misapprehension about yourself you wish you could erase...That I’m a ‘spiky-haired cheeky chappie’. It implies that I’m a clown and a two-bit cook. I’ve been in the industry for 35 years and have received six Michelin stars, yet that is often forgotten!

The event that altered the course of your life and character... I was knocked down by a van in Amsterdam at 19, while I was the chef at the Hilton. I was running for a tram and looked the wrong way while crossing a road. I had a blood clot in my head and needed eight hours of brain surgery and six months to recover. I’ve always looked both ways ever since.

The crime you would commit knowing you could get away with it...I’d ‘borrow’ all three of Alain Ducasse’s three-Michelin-star restaurants – a crime that would achieve all my dreams in one go! The song that means most to you...

Free by Stevie Wonder, which seems to say that the greatest gift in life – and beyond – is freedom. I listen to it all the time.

The happiest moment you will cherish forever...Aside from my marriage and the births of my sons, it was Manchester United winning the European Cup Final in 1999 and with it the treble.

The saddest time that shook your world...On New Year’s Eve 2003, my friend David Nicholls came over and collapsed in tears. His 19-year-old son Dan had broken his neck, by hitting a sandbank while diving into a wave on Bondi Beach, and was paralysed from the arms down. Dan’s a vibrant young man and I hope he’ll make a full recovery one day.

The unfulfilled ambition that continues to haunt you...

I still dream of achieving ‘two Michelin star’ culinary status. This keeps my mind and spirit alive.

The philosophy underpinning your life...Respect can only be earned, not demanded.

The order of service at your funeral...Whatever makes the congregation suitably happy and sad. I want to be cremated – making sure I’m well seasoned and cooked to perfection.

The way you want to be remembered...As someone who could really cook.

The plug...The Nicholls Spinal Injury Foundation www.nichollsfoundation.org.uk. Visit www.garyrhodes.com.

 

Chef Gary Rhodes

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Published: 28 May 2011

Jimmy Choo shoes tycoon Tamara Mellon:

The treasured item you lost and wish you could have again...My father Tommy Yeardye. He died in 2004 and was the most wise person in my life. We used to speak every day. He gave me the drive to take risks. [Yeardye was a TV stuntman and entrepreuner].

The unending quest that drives you on...The thrill of a new idea. Fifteen years ago i dreamed of creating the perfect luxury brand. I’m proud of everything we’ve done at Jimmy Choo, but I know the best is yet to come.

The way you would spend your fantasy 24 hours, with no travel restrictions...I’d spend the whole day on the beach in St Barts in the Caribbean, playing with my nine-year-old daughter Minty. It is one of the most beautiful, relaxing places in the world. We go there every Christmas with friends and family.

The temptation you wish you could resist...Smoking! I started when I was a teenager. I know it’s bad for my health, but I really enjoy it and I’ve resigned myself to not giving up.

The book that holds an everlasting resonance...Feel the Fear and Do It Anyway by Susan Jeffers. It has given me the courage to live out my dreams as a businesswoman.

The priority activity if you were the Invisible Woman for a day...Run around naked in my heels.

The way fame and fortune has changed you, for better and worse...Initially, I found being in the limelight hard, but now I’m more relaxed about it. I’ve worked hard to become self-sufficient and to give my daughter a secure future. On the downside, I have midnight binges on Net-a-Porter, the internet fashion site!

The film you can watch time and time again...Scarface with Al Pacino. I love the dramatic plot and Michelle Pfeiffer is very sexy in it.

The person who has influenced you most...My daughter. She keeps everything in perspective.  

The figure from history for whom you’d most like to buy a pie and a pint...Winston Churchill. He was one of the most interesting men of all time. I also think he had a wicked sense of humour.

The piece of wisdom you would pass on to a child...Don’t try to control the outcome, go with the flow.

The unlikely interest that engages your curiosity...Snakes! I love the pattern and texture of their skin. I have six huge photos by brilliant Swiss photographer Guido Mocafico of coiled coloured snakes in my sitting room.

The prized possession you value above all others...My penthouse apartment, which I bought two years ago on New York’s Upper East Side. I love the location, space and sexy interiors. Moving there was a new beginning for Minty and me. [During a tumultuous period, Tamara lost her father, was divorced from her husband Matthew, fought and won a battle to retain control of her business and became estranged from her mother following a court case over a trance of Jimmy Choo shares, which Tamara won].

The unqualified regret you wish you could amend...I believe in never regretting anything. Everyone’s story makes them who they are. There are chapters of my life I’ve enjoyed more than others, but each has brought me to where I am today and for that I’m grateful.

The poem that touches your soul...The vision by Kahlil Gibran is one of the most inspiring pieces of texts I’ve ever read. His wisdom and delicate use of language are astounding.

The misapprehension about yourself you wish you could erase...People are often surprised by how soft I am when they meet me in the flesh. I wish that wasn’t the case.

The event that altered the course of your life and character...Opening the first Jimmy Choo store in 1996 in London. Jimmy was a cobbler in Hackney when I approached him about going into business. My father lent us £150,000 to get started. There are now 130 stores worldwide.

The crime you would commit knowing you could get away with it...I am a pretty law-abiding citizen, so I’m afraid no crimes spring to mind.

The song that means most to you...Don’t Let The Sun Go Down On Me by Elton John. He is a great friend and this reminds me of lost loved ones. The happiest moment you will cherish forever...After becoming a mother, my happiest day was last year when I was awarded an OBE by the Queen for services to the fashion industry. It was a humbling experience.

The saddest time that shook your world...When my father died suddenly
from a brain aneurysm. He was 73 and I miss him immensely every day.

The unfulfilled ambition that continues to haunt you...I have a real passion and fascination for psychology, so perhaps I could study it properly one day.

The philosophy underpinning your life...Don’t do anything by half.

The order of service at your funeral...I am concentrating on living at the moment, but some of Elton’s tunes would definitely be on the cards.

The way you want to be remembered...As an innovator and, hopefully, as an inspiration to women and mothers.

The plug...Choo 24:7 Bag Collection, which includes luggage. www.jimmy choo.com

 

Jimmy Choo Shoes Tycoon Tamara Mellon

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Published: 21 May 2011

Champion jockey Frankie Dettori:

The treasured item you lost and wish you could have again...The three gold whips I got for my three Dubai World Cup wins. They were stolen, with other trophies and my MBE, in a burglary at my house near Newmarket in 2006.

The unending quest that drives you on...Winning the next race. You can never get enough of winning.

The way you would spend your fantasy 24 hours, with no travel restrictions...Wake at home with my wife Catherine and our five kids. A seafood platter lunch at Deauville in Normandy. The afternoon on the beach at Dubai’s Burj Al Arab hotel, relaxing with just my wife. In the evening, I’d meet all the family and some friends in beautiful, unspoilt Sant’Anna Arresi in Sardinia.

The temptation you wish you could resist...Chocolate, which is bad for my weight – ideally 8st 4lb for racing. With five kids, it’s everywhere and I can’t resist a Kinder egg.

The book that holds an everlasting resonance...The Life And Times Of Fred Archer. Fred was the best English jockey of the late 19th century. He won 2,748 races but shot himself when he was 29, apparently because of his constant  battle with his weight.

The priority activity if you were the Invisible Woman for a day...I’d sit on a deckchair on Copacabana Beach in Rio. There are more beautiful tits and asses there on beautiful women than anywhere else in the world.

The way fame and fortune has changed you, for better and worse...I’ve a much better lifestyle, but I’m more spoilt.

The film you can watch time and time again...

Gladiator. Every time I watch it with my 11-year-old son, Leo, we both cry. I’m quite soft and always cry when people win at sport.

The person who has influenced you most...My father Gianfranco. He was the guv’nor jockey of Italian racing when I was growing up in Milan and an incredible example. He had the strength to send me to England alone when I was just 14 to become a jockey.

The figure from history for whom you’d most like to buy a pie and a pint...Julius Caesar. I’d want to know what drove him to be so power-mad.

The piece of wisdom you would pass on to a child...

Be honest and stick to what you’re good at and you’ll go far.

The unlikely interest that engages your curiosity...Apart from fast horses, I love fast cars. I’ve had four Ferraris and I’m thinking about buying a new convertible. My mind is free of all worries when I’m driving a fast car.

The prized possession you value above all others...My father’s white-gold Piaget watch from the 1960s. He only wore it on very special occasions and when I was ten he said he’d give it to me if I won the Epsom Derby. When Iwon in 2007, he got it engraved and gave it to me. But I’ve never worn it. It’s strange, but that watch was so big in my life that I’m scared to wear it.

The unqualified regret you wish you could amend...Getting caught with cocaine in 1993. I was on all the front pages and put my family through hell. I was cocky and had too much too soon. It made me grow up.

The poem that touches your soul...I don’t read poetry. I don’t understand it!

The misapprehension about yourself you wish you could erase...People think I’m carefree because I’m always smiling, but underneath it all I lead a very organised, disciplined life.

The event that altered the course of your life and character...The plane crash on 1 June 2000 when I came so close to death. [The light aircraft carrying Frankie crashed on take-off at Newmarket Racecourse, and pilot Patrick Mackey died.] It was so traumatic that I wasn’t right for two years. In some ways it made me emotionally harder. I don’t get upset about little things and I surround myself with positive people.

The crime you would commit knowing you could get away with it...I’d steal Sheikh Mohammed’s superyacht, called Dubai. It’s more than 500ft long and cost about £200m. I haven’t been on it, but I’ve seen it and it’s a monster.

The song that means most to you...Time After Time by Cyndi Lauper. It was playing when I had my first kiss, with a Swedish girl I met at the disco at Butlins in Bognor Regis. I was 12 and on holiday with 20 other Italian kids.  I thought I was in love. It was lust! The happiest moment you will cherish forever...My wedding in 1997. There’s nothing better than a huge party with the woman you love and all your family and friends. Ronnie Wood played Amazing Grace on a guitar. It was so unbelievable I was in tears.

The saddest time that shook your world...The plane crash. Patrick Mackey was a very good friend, a lovely man.

The unfulfilled ambition that continues to haunt you...I’ve been trying to win the Melbourne Cup, Australia’s greatest race, for 15 years.

The philosophy underpinning your life...To always stay positive and to have peace of mind.

The order of service at your funeral...A good party; that’s what my life’s been.

The way you want to be remembered...Fun, honest and a lover of life.

The plug...Frankie rides in the Investec Derby at Epsom on 4 June (www. epsomdowns.co.uk). For details about the Qipco British Champions Series visit www.britishchampionsseries.com.

 

 

Champion Jockey Frankie Dettori

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Published: 14 May 2011

Campaigner and Sting’s wife Trudie Styler:

The treasured item you lost and wish you could have again...An album of photos taken mostly by Sting during my first trip to Venice in 1984. It was in December with the fog rolling off the Grand Canal, and we were so happy to be on our own in the most romantic city in the world. The album was lost in a house move.

The unending quest that drives you on...Speaking up for people who would not otherwise be heard.

The way you would spend your fantasy 24 hours, with no travel restrictions...I’d kidnap Sting from wherever he was on tour to watch the sunrise at Varanasi in India, followed by a walk in the Himalayas to the source of the river Ganges. Lunch at our Lake House in Wiltshire with all the kids [the couple have six children between them], dogs and cats. Paris for shopping, then Rome for bellinis at sunset, overlooking the Piazza di Spagna. We’d end up watching the Northern Lights, in the Svalbard Islands near the North Pole, and sleep by the fire at Sweden’s Ice hotel.

The temptation you wish you could resist...Checking my email every time I hear a BlackBerry ping, then feeling disappointed if it’s not mine.

The book that holds an everlasting resonance... Churchill By Himself: The Life, Times And Opinions Of Winston Churchill In His Own Words. He’s the ultimate orator and a hero of mine.

The priority activity if you were the Invisible Woman for a day...

I’d listen to the secret conversations of the world leaders to discover their real agendas.

The way fame and fortune has changed you, for better and worse...I spend too much time leaving places and people. But the travel is exciting. 

The film you can watch time and time again...A Night At The Opera with The Marx Brothers. It always makes me hoot with laughter.

The person who has influenced you most...Vanessa Redgrave. I first met her when I was 17. Her courage, dignity and talent are a constant inspiration.

The figure from history for whom you’d most like to buy a pie and a pint...William Shakespeare. I’d love to know if he really wrote all those plays.

The piece of wisdom you would pass on to a child...

‘It doesn’t matter what you do, it does matter that you are kind.’

The unlikely interest that engages your curiosity...All things medical. I love reading The Lancet and I’m signed up to a medical website for student doctors that sends out daily emails to test your diagnostic skills.

The prized possession you value above all others...My wedding ring. It’s an emerald ring found in a treasure chest in a sunken 15th-century Spanish galleon. It was stolen from me in the south of France, and years later the thief asked us to buy it back. The thief was known to Sting and me and we got it returned. Then last year I got home from a Bruce Springsteen concert in New York and realised the stone was missing. I went back to the venue and found it on the floor. It’s my lucky ring in every way!

The unqualified regret you wish you could amend...The time I went to the bank to complain when they refused me an overdraft. As I made a scene, yesterday’s knickers fell down my trouser leg and ended up on the floor.

The poem that touches your soul...For The Fallen by Laurence Binyon. I recited it at school when I was six on the day Winston Churchill died in 1965. It’s meant more as I’ve got older.

The misapprehension about yourself you wish you could erase...That people think I’m something I’m not, and that I’m motivated by things that truly aren’t important to me.

The event that altered the course of your life and character...Nearly drowning in the Xingu river in Brazil in 1989. I made it to shore, and the experience made me realise I had the power to take control in my life.

The crime you would commit knowing you could get away with it...I’d dump crude oil all over the backyards of the Chevron bosses, just like they’ve done to the indigenous people of Ecuador.

The song that means most to you...If I Loved You from the musical Carousel. My mum sang it to me, Sting has sung it to me, and Hugh Jackman sang it to me at one of my birthday parties.

The happiest moment you will cherish forever...When, in 1981 at the age of 26, I played the lead for the Royal Shakespeare Company in Johnny Gems’ play Naked Robots.

The saddest time that shook your world...When my mum, who had Alzheimer’s, didn’t recognise me any more. She died when she was 60 and never met her grandchildren.

The unfulfilled ambition that continues to haunt you... To sing in tune, and thereby astound my entire family.

The philosophy underpinning your life...Live more, give more, forgive more.

The order of service at your funeral...The eulogy by Bob Geldof, complete with profanities no doubt, then Bring Me Sunshine as sung by Morecambe and Wise, with everybody doing their silly dance as they leave the church.

The way you want to be remembered...With love by my family and friends.

The plug...Trudie Styler’s Lake House Table ready-to-cook suppers are available in Waitrose and via Ocado.  

 

Campaigner And Sting’s Wife Trudie Styler

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Published: 7 May 2011

Comedy actor Adrian Edmondson:

The treasured item you lost and wish you could have again... A cheap acoustic guitar which my best friend Robert painted on while I was at school, including a poem by Leonard Cohen.  I ran out of cash and sold it for a fiver.  I saw a rumour on Friends Reunited that it might still exist, but the trail went cold…

The unending quest that drives you on... I just want to have fun until I die.

The way you would spend your fantasy 24 hours, with no travel restrictions... Breakfast of pancakes and maple syrup in Beaver Creek, Colorado, with Jennifer [Saunders] and my daughters – Ella, Beattie and Frey – followed by skiing on freshly groomed slopes. Teleport onto a traditional fishing boat pootling along the Amalfi coast in Italy to lunch at Positano.  Back to the real St James’ Park to watch Exeter City beat Barcelona in the Champions League, followed by an evening in my favourite pub on Dartmoor with my band, The Bad Shepherds, and close friends.  We’d play a set and be joined by David Bowie, Nick Cave and Rachel and Becky Unthank.

The temptation you wish you could resist... Beer.  I love the taste and the effect, and there’s nothing better than starting on the ale with mates a little earlier than you really should.  The trouble is it makes me the wrong size for my clothes.

The book that holds an everlasting resonance... I hold Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance in very high regard.  There are simple lessons in it, but unfortunately I rarely act on them.

The priority activity if you were the Invisible Man for a day... Being recognised can be tedious, so it would be great to be able to disappear at will, but I hate the idea of knowing other people’s secrets or being a peeping Tom.  I don’t even like being shown around houses, especially people’s bedrooms. 

The way fame and fortune has changed you, for better and worse...The only thing that has really changed me in life is having children.  The rest is bollocks.  I went from being selfish to being more or less selfless – a distinct improvement for me and those around me, and much more satisfying.

The film you can watch time and time again... Monsieur Hulot’s Holiday with Jacques Tati.   I first saw it as a student in Manchester and you’d think the jokes would go stale, but the gentle poignancy behind Tatti’s slightly sad longing for a disappearing world makes it so re-watchable.

 The person who has influenced you most... Johnny Rotten.  He showed me that you didn’t have to do things the way we’d been taught.  I’m still in his thrall, but I imagine he’d think I was a middle class w*****!

The figure from history for whom you’d most like to buy a pie and a pint... Stan Laurel.  I still watch Laurel and Hardy on a borderline obsessive basis.  All the jokes you see on modern telly are there.  I’d ask him where he got them from and hear about his comic heroes.

The piece of wisdom you would pass on to a child...Do what you want, but don’t confuse it with doing what is easiest.

The unlikely interest that engages your curiosity... I like "collecting" tors while walking on Dartmoor.  I have a dream of ticking them all off in a year, but there are 204, so I’d have to do a serious amount of walking.

The prized possession you value above all others...I’m not particularly into possessions because most are replaceable, but I’d be gutted if we lost our family photograph albums.

The unqualified regret you wish you could amend... It’s pointless regretting stuff, but I really wish I knew more physics and chemistry.  Or, indeed, any.

The poem that touches your soul... Summoned By Bells is John Betjeman’s autobiography in verse.  It is comic, but tear jerking, and the section about boarding school really gets me – the feeling of being abandoned.  I went through the same experience and reading it is quite cathartic.

The misapprehension about yourself you wish you could erase...I’ve stopped worrying about the gulf between what I am and what people think I am.  In fact, I rather enjoy it.

The event that altered the course of your life and character... Meeting Rik Mayall at Manchester University in 1975 when we were both 18.  He is a kindred spirit, a true ‘mucker’, and we have a limitless ability to amuse each other.  Back then we thought we were going to be straight actors, but suddenly became comics, which changed everything.

 

The crime you would commit knowing you could get away with it...I’d do a Pink Panther style heist and – being a staunch republican – I’d steal the orb and sceptre and use them as door stops in my downstairs toilet.

The song that means most to you...$1,000 Wedding. Part of our early courtship was about Jennifer introducing me to country music and this was one of those songs. We still sing it in the car – I am Gram Parsons and Jennifer is Emmylou Harris.   

The happiest moment you will cherish forever...The Bad Shepherds played the Avalon stage at Glastonbury last year.  We were on top form and when we finished the reception was extraordinary.  It was like pure love and it touched all three of us.  The audience sensed that and ramped it up and we were inwardly sobbing. It was strangely glorious.

The saddest time that shook your world... I found it very hard dealing with my daughters leaving home.  I still see them a lot, but I really miss those times, especially sitting round the kitchen table after school with a mug of tea and a sticky bun, listening to them bitch about school.

The unfulfilled ambition that continues to haunt you... I wish I could speak Italian, play the trumpet, finish my second novel, create the perfect sitcom, tour the world with my band, get thinner and grow hair on my head as protection against the elements.  Above all I’d like to know how to use the Leica camera I got for Christmas properly.

The philosophy that underpins your life... Cheer up you stupid tw*t!

The order of service at your funeral... Abide With Me to make them cry, Jazz Delicious Hot, Disgusting Cold by the Bonzo Dog Doo-Dah Band to cheer them up. Six black horses and some cancan dancers.

The way you want to be remembered... ‘That bastard stole my pint!’

The Plug... The Bad Shepherds play punk songs on folk instruments and are touring this summer.  Visit www.thebadshepherds.com for details.

 

 

 

Comedy Actor Adrian Edmondson

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Published: 30 April 2011

Magazine tycoon Felix Dennis:

 "I am a born-again atheist, so there isn’t going to be a funeral"

We ask a celebrity a set of devilishly probing questions – and only accept THE definitive answer. This week it’s publishing icon and poet Felix Dennis’s turn…

The treasured item you lost and wish you could have again...My grandfather’s Hunter pocket watch which fell out of my jacket during a ramble in the woods. I have searched the route about 20 times since. It was around 100 years old and had huge sentimental value.

The unending quest that drives you on...This changes with the seasons of my life. In my teens, it was to sleep with more girls than the other guys at school; in my 20s it was to be a R&B singer and to change the world with hippie magazines like Oz. My 30s and 40s were about making hundreds of millions of pounds. Since my 50s it has been about planting a forest, becoming a first class poet and giving money to charity.

The temptation you wish you could resist...Why resist? For me, temptation is life and I have a gargantuan appetite for everything. A friend of mine from the clergy was dying and I asked him what he regretted and he said: ‘All the glasses of wine I chose not to drink.’

The book that holds an everlasting resonance...Sylva by a 17th century writer called John Evelyn. It was the first serious book about forestry, published in 1664 by the Royal Society. I own three first editions of it.

The priority activity if you were the Invisible Man for a day...That’s for me to know and for you to guess. Anyway, I have never been a fan of HG Wells.

The film you can watch time and time again...I loathe and detest movies and television and don’t watch any. I do not have the time. George Lucas forced me to go to the premiere of The Empire Strikes Back because I was publishing the Star Wars magazines at the time. I hated it and was bored out of my mind.

The person who has influenced you most...My mother. She’s 93 and hates being talked about in the Press. I have always described her as a prettier version of Margaret Thatcher – but without the soft bits in Lady T’s character.

The figure from history for whom you’d most like to buy a pie and a pint...William Shakespeare. He is my all-time literary hero. I would want to know what he was doing between the ages of 14 and 24.

These are the lost years about which we know nothing.

The piece of wisdom you would pass on to a child...‘To thine own self be true’, from Hamlet. I’ve tried to base my life on it, but wish I’d done better.

The unlikely interest that engages your curiosity...Poetics. I write traditional verse and like studying the forms of poetry, but once I mention ‘iambic pentameter’ you are already falling asleep.

The prized possession you value above all others...My collection of original drawings and wood blocks by Eric Gill, the brilliant calligrapher, letterer and sculptor. I have about 5,000 pieces, and it is the biggest private collection of its kind. I let scholars view it.

The unqualified regret you wish you could amend...That I did not begin writing poetry earlier. I started at 52, which was far too late.

The poem that touches your soul...John Dryden’s The Secular Masque.

The misapprehension about yourself you wish you could erase...People can say what they will about me. It is literally water off a duck’s back. It’s not that I don’t care, it’s worse than that – I don’t even notice.

The event that altered the course of your life and character...Growing up without a father. He left when I was two and I became the alpha male. I was the guy who got the spider out of the bath.

The crime you would commit knowing you could get away with it...I’ve already done it… and that is the end of that conversation! [In a 2008 interview Dennis said he killed a man by pushing him off a cliff, but later retracted the statement, saying he’d been under the influence of alcohol and medication].

The song that means most to you...One Too Many Mornings by Bob Dylan. It was playing when I first went to bed with a girl, when I was 15.

The happiest moment you will cherish forever...Having my poetry read by the Royal Shakespeare Company at the Swan Theatre, Stratford-upon-Avon, in 2006. Then they made me get up and read Shakespeare. The audience was in tears and we got a standing ovation.

The saddest time that shook your world...The first death of a lifelong friend about 12 years ago. It shook me because it was the first intimation of mortality and I realised I was next.

The unfulfilled ambition that continues to haunt you...Creating the perfect sonnet or villanelle, which are my two favourite forms of poetic writing.

The philosophy that underpins your life...Be kind and, better yet, be kind secretly. People like Bob Geldof and Bono truly believe their celebrity adds to the cause – but does it?

The order of service at your funeral...I am a born-again atheist, so there isn’t going to be a funeral. I will be buried in a linen wrap in a cardboard coffin in my forest with an oak tree planted on my head. There’ll be a big rock with a poem chiselled on it and that’s it. I have left £10,000 for a knees-up.

The way you want to be remembered...As I won’t be around I can’t see that it really matters.

The Plug...How To Make Money is published by Vermilion, £8.99. Visit www.felixdennis.com

 

Felix Dennis died after a long battle against throat cancer on Sunday, 22nd June 2014. He was 67.

 

 

The Late Magazine Tycoon Felix Dennis

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Published: 23 April 2011

Today presenter James Naughtie:

The treasured item you lost and wish you could have again...I’ve lost part of a bronze statuette of Mozart that was left to me by a piano teacher who taught me as a schoolboy. Mozart is playing the fiddle and his beautiful little bow went missing in a house move. He stands on our bedroom mantelpiece and I miss the bow every day.

The unending quest that drives you on...Organising myself. I’ll never be able to do it, but I try…

The way you would spend your fantasy 24 hours, with no time-travel restrictions...A dawn walk alongside a Highland loch with our dog. Lunch in the Oyster Bar at Grand Central Station – when New York is at its maddest and most alluring. The evening in Verona for a ramshackle opera in the Roman arena, then dinner outside with some perfect wine and my wife, Ellie. Bliss.

The temptation you wish you could resist...Talking too much. Maybe it’s a lost cause, but it would be nice if, just for once, someone said to me, ‘Wow – that was quick!’

The book that holds an everlasting resonance...Kidnapped by Robert Louis Stevenson brings back the excitement of childhood. The story of a lost inheritance and the Jacobite wars is made for boys. A ripping yarn.

The priority activity if you were the Invisible Man for a day...Lurking in the Cabinet room, but I suspect it would get tedious quite quickly, so I’d flit off to Chequers in the hope of catching David Cameron and Nick Clegg playing tennis.

The way fame and fortune has changed you, for better and worse...I can’t talk on a bus without someone suggesting I sound like that funny guy from Today on the radio, so I have to be careful about what I say. But the ability to wake up every morning and help to write another front page is the best fun in the world.

The film you can watch time and time again...Some Like It Hot. The Lemmon-Curtis-Monroe classic which I first saw more than 40 years ago.

The person who has influenced you most...My wife, Ellie, who is my most insightful critic, and on whom I rely for so much.

The figure from history for whom you’d most like to buy a pie and a pint...Lyndon B. Johnson, to talk about the political game. The most complicated of US presidents, he was a master plotter, and his stories would be classics.

The piece of wisdom you would pass on to a child...That your own instincts are almost always right.

The unlikely interest that engages your curiosity...Bees. I keep a hive and I’ve become a little obsessed. Apart from anything else, they’re cleverer than we are.

The prized possession that you value above all others...Our new home in Edinburgh, where we hope to be spending a lot more time.

The unqualified regret you wish you could amend...Forgetting what an old teacher told me at school: You can’t take back the spoken word. On the radio… need I say there has been the odd thing I wish I hadn’t said?! The poem that touches your soul...Hugh MacDiarmid’s The Little White Rose: ‘The rose of all the world is not for me/I want for my part/Only the little white rose of Scotland/That smells sharp and sweet – and breaks the heart.’

The misapprehension about yourself you wish you could erase...That it’s possible to discern my political views by listening to Today. It isn’t.

The event that altered the course of your life and character...My first trip to America as a student in 1970 was an eye-opener and a thrill. I saw enough from a Greyhound bus to last a lifetime. It was the start of an up-and-down love affair with the States.

The crime you would commit knowing you could get away with it...Bringing down every sports governing body in the world. I can’t think of one that I wouldn’t like to be replaced.

The song that means most to you...It will have to be Morgen, one of the Four Last Songs by Richard Strauss.

The happiest moment you will cherish forever...Aside from my wedding and the births of my three children, it is the day I first heard the presses rolling and smelt the ink at my first newspaper, The Press And Journal in Aberdeen. I was 23 and remember it still.

The saddest time that shook your world...The death of my father, when I was 22 in 1973. He probably wondered what I was going to do with my life. He was a village headmaster with a profound humanity that I loved more than I could adequately tell him.

The unfulfilled ambition that continues to haunt you...Skiing for a week and returning without a scratch.

The philosophy that underpins your life...It’s a new day.

The order of service at your funeral...A Scottish psalm, happy hymns, a bit of the Mozart Requiem and Handel, some Donne, Bunyan and an instruction to enjoy the aftermath with gusto.

The way you want to be remembered...I’ve always liked the epitaph, ‘He didn’t do much harm.’

The Plug...Radio 4 will catch every nuance of the Royal Wedding. It’s the kind of event radio does best: words, words, words. Lovely!

 

 

Today Presenter James Naughtie

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Published: 16 April 2011

Bonkbuster novelist Jackie Collins:

The treasured item you lost and wish you could have again...

A childhood doll I left on the beach in Ilfracombe in North Devon and never saw again.It was a small naked plastic doll with crazy hair. I still miss it!

The unending quest that drives you on...A passion for creating characters and stories that keep me intrigued. I write in longhand, and my characters take me on a trip.

The way you would spend your fantasy 24 hours, with no travel restrictions...Breakfast in Bali. A walk through the Paris flea market. Lunch in Rome. Shopping in Milan. Tea at the Dorchester in London. Cocktails in Moscow. Dinner at Mr Chow in LA. Finally, a midnight swim in the pool at my LA house, which I built 20 years ago. It’s my dream home!

The temptation you wish you could resist...Saying yes to events, parties and dinners when I really want to say no. I am a true Libra in that respect. We find it very difficult to say no to anything, but, believe me, I’m trying!

The book that holds an everlasting resonance...The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald. Jay Gatsby is the definitive romantic and elusive hero. I re-read the book every year.

The priority activity if you were the Invisible Woman for a day...I’d sit in on Barack Obama’s bedtime chat with his wife Michelle.

The way fame and fortune has changed you, for better and worse...Better is having the freedom to do whatever I want. Worse is never having the time!

The film you can watch time and time again...It’s tough to choose between Parts I and II of The Godfather, but I’d go for Part II. It’s so dark, dangerous and sexy. I notice something new every time – and Al Pacino rocks it!

The person who has influenced you most...My father Joseph. Tall, dark, handsome and a total chauvinist! He gave me an interesting take on men and the double-standard that exists to this day. I still feel that men think they can get away with anything, and women are still doing their best to catch up.

The figure from history for whom you’d most like to buy a pie and a pint...Elvis Presley. I’d like to ask why he allowed himself to throw it all away. He had everything, but ended up drugged out on a bathroom floor.

The piece of wisdom you would pass on to a child...To always be true to yourself, and to treat others the way you wish to be treated yourself.

The unlikely interest that engages your curiosity...Singing. I took singing lessons as a teenager and I could see myself as a Sade or an Amy Winehouse. Oh, and I rule at karaoke!

The prized possession you value above all others...I don’t value possessions as everything is temporary. I do love my two diamond engagement rings.One from my late husband, Oscar, the other from my late fiancé, Frank.

The unqualified regret you wish you could amend...My mother Elsa never saw two of my daughters or knew I was a published author. She died from breast cancer in 1962. I was only 25. She was too young, and I still miss her.

The poem that touches your soul...A poem called The Traffic Warden that my daughter, Rory, wrote about parking wardens when she was eight. It was illustrated by my other daughter, Tiffany, who was 12. So sweet.

The misapprehension about yourself you wish you could erase...That my books are all about sex. Yes, there is plenty of sex, but it’s the stories and characters that have enabled me to sell over 400 million books!

The event that altered the course of your life and character...I nursed two fantastic men through terminal cancer – Oscar and Frank. What I experienced made me realise how swift life can be.

The crime you would commit knowing you could get away with it...I’d be a vigilante and get rid of child molesters and murderers for good.

The song that means most to you...What’s Going On by Marvin Gaye. Pure magic. He could sing and had such an interesting and ultimately tragic life.

The happiest moment you will cherish forever...The births of my three daughters. Smart, talented, fantastic women. They make me proud. The saddest time that shook your world...The losses of Oscar and Frank.

The unfulfilled ambition that continues to haunt you...I’d love to direct a movie of one of my books starring Angelina Jolie and George Clooney. Together they would be dynamite – sexual chemistry!

The philosophy that underpins your life...I believe in karma and I call myself a hovering Buddhist because it’s such a calm and beautiful religion.

I am extremely laid back. I guess my philosophy in life is ‘Whatever…’.

The order of service at your funeral...Fun. Photos. Great music. Fab food. A celebration of a life well lived.

The way you want to be remembered...She gave a great many people a great deal of pleasure and had no regrets.

The plug...My new bestseller, Goddess Of Vengeance, is published by Simon and Schuster, £14.99.

 

The Late Bonkbuster Novelist Jackie Collins

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Published: 9 April 2011

Thriller writer Wilbur Smith:

The treasured item you lost and wish you could have again...

The Joseph Rodgers clasp knife that my grandfather gave me when I was seven. I grew up in central Africa and I watched him kill pigs with it. It was stolen from me on the school playground.

The unending quest that drives you on...Creating fiction and making it believable. To me, my characters are more real than most people I meet.

The way you would spend your fantasy 24 hours, with no time travel restrictions...Breakfast looking at Table Mountain from my Cape Town home, fishing for trout on the river Test at Kimbridge in Hampshire, lunch at Annabel’s club in Mayfair, clay pigeon shooting, writing, then one of my famous barbecues with some good mates. Under the covers with my wife Niso-Jon before 11pm. Bliss!

The temptation you wish you could resist...Playing chess against my computer. I know it’s a waste of time, but it’s addictive. I say it keeps my mind sharp – but the hell did I put my keys?

The book that holds an everlasting resonance...Robert Graves’ I, Claudius. I am fascinated by the Caesars.

The priority activity if you were the Invisible Man for a day...I’d listen to the people who look after my properties around the world discussing me.

The way fame and fortune is changing you, for better and worse...It has given me self-confidence and I can hold up my head high in any company.

Nothing bad about it.

The film you can watch time and time again...Lawrence Of Arabia. Peter O’Toole was splendid.

The person who has influenced you most...My father. He was strict, but fair, wise and brave. I saw him face down and shoot dead a charging lion when I was eight. He told the most wonderful stories.

The person from history for whom you’d most like to buy a pie and a pint...Frederick Courteney Selous, a great British explorer of Africa in the 19th century. He died a hero aged 70, shot by a sniper in the First World War in East Africa.

The piece of wisdom you would pass on to a child...Scream, puke copiously, defecate at will and break things. It will get you the attention you need.

The unlikely interest that engages your curiosity...I am a closet birdwatcher. I can identify Southern African species, but it irks me I can barely tell a jay from a blackbird in the UK.

The prized possession you value above all others...My .375 calibre rifle built by Holland & Holland to celebrate the Queen’s Silver Jubilee. It’s twice saved my life, against a lion then a buffalo.

The unqualified regret you wish you could amend...That my father and I could have been true friends. We were getting there. On my 50th birthday he called me an idiot for the three millionth time. I said, ‘Dad, you can’t call me that any more. I’ve proved you wrong. An  idiot doesn’t write ten best-sellers.’

He grinned, replied, ‘I guess you have’, then gave me a hug. Dad didn’t hug much. It was one of the most memorable moments in our relationship.

The poem that touches your soul...Rudyard Kipling’s If. My mother crocheted it and hung it above my bed when I was ten.

The misapprehension about yourself you wish you could erase...There are people out there with an eye on my hard-earned cash who think that I am a pushover. I am not!

The event that altered the course of your life and character...The 1964 telefax from William Heinemann Publishers offering me an advance of £1,000 to publish my first novel When The Lion Feeds.

The crime you would commit knowing you could get away with it...I’d knock off Paul Gauguin’s Hail Mary from the Metropolitan Museum of Art then hang it in my bedroom and gloat.

The song that means most to you...Like every other man over 50 it has to be My Way by Frank Sinatra. It’s the oldies’ battle hymn.

The happiest moment you will cherish for ever...The moment I clapped eyes on my little lady, Niso-Jon, the lights came on. Eleven years later, they are still burning brightly.

The saddest time that shook your world...The death of my father in 1987. He was 80 and too young. I was in my mid-50s and my world changed when he died. I wept at his graveside.

The unfulfilled ambition that continues to haunt you...To sink a long putt on the last hole to take the British Open away from Lee Westwood.

The philosophy that underpins your life...Kipling’s If: ‘If you can meet with triumph and disaster, and treat those two imposters just the same.’

The order of service at your funeral...When I vacate this sack of old bones I won’t care what you do with it. Bury or burn it but don’t make much fuss.

The way you want to be remembered...As somebody who never did harm to anybody, until they threw the first punch. As somebody who gave pleasure to millions and had a wonderful time doing it.

The plug...Those In Peril by Wilbur Smith, Macmillan, £18.99.

 

Thriller Writer Wilbur Smith

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Published: 2 April 2011

Billionaire inventor Sir James Dyson:

The treasured item you lost and wish you could have again...My Austin Healey 100/4, which I had in 1968 when I was a student at the Royal College of Art. It was badly engineered and kept breaking down. Repairing it was my first foray into engineering.

The unending quest that drives you on...Discover, prove, test, test, test.

The way you would spend your fantasy 24 hours, with no time travel restrictions...Breakfast in Provence, Christmas lunch with my family and grandchildren, then tobogganing on the Cotswold hills. Building sandcastles on any sandy equatorial beach, before ending the day reading poems to grandchildren in bed.

The temptation you wish you could resist...Ginger chocolate oat bars from Waitrose.

 The book that holds an everlasting resonance...My Japanese phrase book. I used it when I went to Japan with the G-Force vacuum cleaner. Technology-savvy, they were the first to license my machine.

The priority activity if you were the Invisible Man for a day...I’d sneak into Westminster and rearrange the ministerial in-trays. Engineering needs to be a bigger part of the national curriculum. A plan to save it would then be at the top of Michael Gove’s paper pile.

The way fame and fortune is changing you, for better and worse...Helping the Royal College of Art, from which I learnt so much. But I’ve now lost the anticipation of writing a cheque and wondering whether the bank manager would pay it.

The film you can watch time and time again...Flash Of Genius. In it Robert Kearns battles against the car giants of Detroit that ripped off his intermittent windscreen wiper invention.

The person who has influenced you most...The late entrepreneur and inventor Jeremy Fry. He took a punt on me and gave me my first break, building a high-speed landing craft. He taught me to stop theorising and worrying, just to get started and build prototypes. I built thousands of them. Oh, and Jeremy taught me to weld.

The figure from history for whom you’d most like to buy a pie and a pint...Henry VIII, for introducing the Patent system to protect inventors. If I were able to meet him I’m convinced I could help him improve the system further.

The piece of wisdom you would pass on to a child...Don’t be afraid of failure. If something doesn’t work, use what you’ve learnt to try and try again.

The unlikely interest that engages your curiosity...Sharpening pencils using Kenneth Grange’s brilliant powered sharpener.

The prized possession you value above all others...Half a Mini. For my 60th birthday, my engineers sliced a crosssection of a Mini – engine included.

The unqualified regret you wish you could amend...I failed to safeguard my  Ballbarrow idea – I gave the rights to a company I didn’t control. I now protect Dyson inventions vigorously.

The poem that touches your soul...Eric Idle’s Ants In Their Pants, about the sex life of ants, makes me smile: ‘How does the ant get it on?’ Now that’s curiosity!

The misapprehension about yourself you wish you could erase...That I’m a businessman. God forbid. I’m far happier in a laboratory or workshop, pulling things apart.

The event that altered the course of your life and character...When I was 17, I visited a handlebar-moustached careers advisor at school. He told me to be an estate agent. I’ve avoided ‘experts’ ever since.

The crime you would commit knowing you could get away with it...I’d use a JCB to drive off with counterfeit products. Copycats and ripping off intellectual property is quite simply theft.

The song that means most to you...Bob Dylan’s Don’t Think Twice, It’s All Right. I have to think about things a thousand times – 5,127 times to get the vacuum cleaner right.

The happiest moment you will cherish forever...Aside from anything family-related, the first time I heard someone recommend a Dyson machine – to me. The saddest time that shook your world...The loss of my parents. I was nine when my father Alec died. He was only 40. My mother Mary died aged 55. They were both academics who painted. My father made things in a workshop, taught classics, produced and wrote plays, sailed, played rugby and hockey. He was a real polymath with an enthusiasm for everything.

The unfulfilled ambition that continues to haunt you...The school I wanted to build in Bath. The last government asked me to build it and then laid obstacle after obstacle. One day!

The philosophy that underpins your life...We owe it to future generations to leave the world in a better state than how we found it.

The order of service at your funeral...Strip body. Remove wiring. Separate components. Recycle.

The way you want to be remembered...As a champion of the prosaic.

The Plug...The James Dyson Award for inventions is open for entries from 5 April. www.jamesdysonaward.org

 

Billionaire Inventor Sir James Dyson

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Published: 26 March 2011

Virgin tycoon Sir Richard Branson:

The treasured item you lost and wish you could have again...You mean, apart from losing my virginity?! I am unbelievably lucky I’ve still got both my parents, my beautiful wife of 30 years and two fantastic kids. At the ripe old age of 60, I still have all my treasured items.

The unending quest that drives you on...To keep learning

The way you would spend your fantasy 24 hours, with no time travel restrictions...For the first 12 hours I would travel back to the age of the great explorers and hitch a ride with Sir Walter Raleigh. For the remaining 12 hours I would travel into the future and have a nose around the Apple offices and pinch a few ideas!

The temptation you wish you could resist...I’ve never been very good at resisting temptation.

The book that holds an everlasting resonance...Tim Flannery’s The Weather Makers. This groundbreaking book explains the implications of global climate change and what we can do to avoid a catastrophe that will affect the survival of all life on Earth. Our fate is in our hands. Read it!

The priority activity if you were the Invisible Man for a day...Think I’ll keep this answer to myself.

The way fame and fortune is changing you, for better and worse...I genuinely don’t think it’s changed me at all. I’m an entrepreneur and have become well known because I have needed to make my businesses well known, without the ad-spend of my competitors. It was necessity, rather than a desire to be famous, that put me in front of cameras.

The film you can watch time and time again...The Hangover. I watch a lot of films on aeroplane seatback screens. Sometimes it’s just good to kick back and laugh out loud at something silly – but I’m not sure it goes down too well with my fellow passengers.

The person who has influenced you most...I would have to have two: my wonderful parents. They have been hugely influential and supportive and a constant sounding board in my life.

The person from history for whom you’d most like to buy a pie and a pint...Gandhi – obviously, it would have to be a vegetarian pie and a nonalcoholic pint! With everything going on in the world today it would be fascinating to hear his views on peaceful mass protests and to ask him how he would have used Twitter, if he’d had it, to help his cause.

The piece of wisdom you would pass on to a child...For every wonderful thing you receive in life, give something back.

The unlikely interest that engages your curiosity...I love doing magic tricks. I drive my friends and family mad with them. My favourite is the disappearing wrist watch – I’ve raised a few pounds for charity doing it.

The prized possession you value above all others...My own piece of paradise, Necker Island. I am so fortunate to call this beautiful jewel in the Caribbean my home.

The unqualified regret you wish you could amend...Life always holds regrets. I’m sure most people wish we had said sorry more, when it’s really mattered, to the person or people we’ve hurt, whether that hurt be big or small.

The poem that touches your soul...There once was a young woman from Nantucket

The misapprehension about yourself you wish you could erase...That I’m 60 years old – everyone who knows me knows that I’m still really a teenager!

The event that altered the course of your life and character...In the summer of 2006 I met with Al Gore and we talked about the effects of climate change and how humans are destroying the planet. This had a profound effect on my outlook towards how we leave our planet for our children.

The crime you would commit knowing you could get away with it...Like I would tell you! OK then, I’d steal British Airways’ slots at Heathrow.

The song that means most to you...Well, it’s an album – Mike Oldfield’s Tubular Bells. The rest is history.

The happiest moment you will cherish for ever...Simple: becoming a father. Now I just need Holly or Sam to get a move on and make me a grandfather.

The saddest time that shook your world...The loss of my dear friend Steve Fossett. We had a wonderful bond and shared many great adventures.

The unfulfilled ambition that continues to haunt you...The unfulfilled ambition that continues to haunt you... It’s got to be space travel at affordable prices, but I’m on the case at Virgin Galactic. It’ll take a decade or two to bring prices down to a level that the majority of people will be able to afford but I believe this will be possible in our lifetime.

The philosophy that underpins your life...We owe it to future generations to leave the world in a better state than how we found it.

The order of service at your funeral...The bar is open!

The way you want to be remembered...As someone who tried (and hopefully succeeded) to make a positive difference to the world.

The plug...The grass-roots charities that work with our foundation. Check out www.virginunite.com.

 

 

Virgin Tycoon Sir Richard Branson

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Published: 19 March 2011

Burger King frontman Piers Morgan:

The treasured item you lost and wish you could have again...My whole cricket autograph collection got stolen one day at The Oval when I was 15. It took me years to amass and still breaks my heart every time I think of the moment I knew it was gone.

The unending quest that drives you on...A terror of being bored.

The way you would spend your fantasy 24 hours, with no time travel restrictions...Right now, I’d fly my three sons to New York and watch them laugh, argue, compete, eat, drink, fight, play and torment their father together.

The temptation you wish you could resist...Feuding with Alan Sugar on Twitter. I know it’s a ridiculous waste of time, but I enjoy it too much to stop.

The book that holds an everlasting resonance...An Evil Cradling by Brian Keenan. After reading this extraordinarily brave, spirited man’s searing account of surviving five years in captivity in Lebanon, I vowed to avoid feeling sorry for myself again.

The priority activity if you were the Invisible Man for a day...I’d stand in Scarlett Johansson’s shower cubicle.

The way fame and fortune is changing you, for better and worse...Better: I don’t have time to waste with boring dullards. Worse: I don’t have time to be the father or friend I’d really like to be.

The film you can watch time and time again...Rocky. It never fails to lift my spirits when I’m down.

The person who has influenced you most...My mother. She’s the strongest, wisest, kindest, most generous person I know.

The person from history for whom you’d most like to buy a pie and a pint...Winston Churchill, the greatest personification of Britishness there has ever been. I’d like to light his cigar and thank him.

The piece of wisdom you would pass on to a child...It would be the same as the words my dad gave me: Always be nice to policemen, and always drink the best French wine you can afford.

The unlikely interest that engages your curiosity...I like to collect personalised memorabilia from famous people. My latest acquisition is Charlie Sheen’s negative drug test result with ‘To Piers, let’s get hammered, love Charlie’ scrawled on it.

The prized possession you value above all others...My uncle Jeremy, a Catholic army deacon, gave me a rosary bead after I was fired from the Daily Mirror that I keep in my wallet. It seems to have worked pretty well so far.

The unqualified regret you wish you could amend...Charging recklessly down the wicket when I was on 96 in an East Sussex League cricket match, and getting out four runs short of what would have been my only league century. My sons were waiting to record my moment of glory, and instead had to greet me at the pavilion with the words: ‘Dad, why the hell did you do that?’

The poem that touches your soul...Your Laughter by Pablo Neruda. I used it to woo my wife, who has a great laugh.

The misapprehension about yourself you wish you could erase...That I’m as arrogant as everyone thinks. It’s just a self-protective veneer. Honest, guv!

The event that altered the course of your life and character...Coming home in tears of boredom from the Lloyd’s insurance market in London, where I was a clerk for nine months at 19. I told my mother I couldn’t do another moment, so she fought to get me onto a journalism course at Harlow College and my career was launched.

The crime you would commit knowing you could get away with it...I’d kidnap Manchester United forward Dimitar Berbatov until the end of the season, so Arsenal could steal the Premiership.

The song that means most to you...My Way by Frank Sinatra. It’s been the template for my life and career – don’t be a lemming, be an individual.

The happiest moment you will cherish for ever...My wedding day last June was pretty perfect in every way.

The saddest time that shook your world...The death of one of my best friends, Will Page, in a cycling accident before he was 30. It made me realise that life can be cruelly short, and has to be enjoyed to the full.

The unfulfilled ambition that continues to haunt you...I have a really weird hankering to be a movie star. Preferably in a film that involves torrid love scenes with Eva Mendes.

The philosophy that underpins your life...In the words of a postcard my mother once sent me, depicting a hippo flying with a flock of seagulls, ‘Ambition knows no bounds’.

The order of service at your funeral...I’d like to be carried in to the Test Match Special theme tune and out to Always Look On The Bright Side Of Life. With maybe an address by my former boss Kelvin MacKenzie, mocking my entire life and career.

The way you want to be remembered...As an agent provocateur who didn’t take himself nearly as seriously as everyone else wanted him to.

Piers Morgan Tonight airs weekdays live on CNN at 2am and is repeated at 8pm the following day.

 

Burger King Frontman Piers Pughe-Morgan

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Mighty Aphrodite – Cyprus, Daily Mirror

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I realise there has been much anticipation for the unveiling of my first ever work of art on canvas since I mentioned an original piece was indeed in creation. Now the time is upon us. Steady. May I welcome to the world what is provisionally called “Canvas One”.

This could be one of those moments that is fondly referred to in art history in, say, 100 years time. Then again, it may not.

Many people (as in, none) have asked me about my inspiration for this piece. They have likened it to a piece of fearless satire in a post-modernists style and one that is bound to be imitated.

The work simply unfolded effortlessly in my mind And now that it is done and I can step back, I realise one thing is clear: I have painted a bloody flag.

Welcome: Canvas One!

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January 30, 2009

It was remiss of me not to note a particularly inspiring evening recently (15th January).

Fresh from Bob Warren’s funeral – with a crackling vintage recording of Tiptoe Through the Tulips, which was played at his commendation, still making me smile – I alighted alone at the Donmar Warehouse for an evening with T.S Eliot. Death and Eliot are comfortable companions.

I was there to hear a reading of Eliot’s Four Quartets. Eliot’s poetry has been an enduring presence in my life since studying some of his key pieces at A-Level. Four Quartets are timeless, multi-layered masterpieces; lyrically mesmerising, endlessly challenging and, it has to be said, quite beautifully bewildering. Little Gidding is my favourite. A section of it is framed on my desk and a small pencil portrait of Eliot by Wyndham Lewis is white-tacked to the wall.

I have not been to a poetry recital this side of my functioning memory and I have never heard Four Quartets, so this was quite a treat. It was recited by Stephen Dillane as part of the Donmar’s Eliot festival. Where else could one find such a festival than at the courageous, broad thinking Donmar? I applaud Michael Grandage’s versatility and vision for the Donmar in general and in particular for this programme.

Dillane’s recital was skilled and accomplished. To recite all four parts of this lengthy and complex poem is nothing short of remarkable. He gave a beguiling performance, although I have to say it lacked something for me. It is hard to isolate exactly what that something was. He certainly brought the poem to life and it illuminated several parts to me, even though I have read it all many times. I guess one of the obstacles is that I have only ever heard Eliot’s recorded reading, or listened to my own internal voice. It is a bit like the experience of watching the film of a book that is special to you. It is impossible for the images to live up to your imagination. How on earth could Dillane reflect or replace the images from a hundred readings? Also, I attach more melancholy to the piece than his portrayal provided and I have always associated it with an older voice. He was quizzical and frivolous in places where I see nothing short of despair. Still, I thoroughly enjoyed his work and respect his achievement.

The evening was closed with a stunning performance of Beethoven’s opus 132 by a string quartet of the Soloists of the Philharmonia Orchestra. With fitting drama and atmosphere, they were lit by just a single bulb from an overhead light. I marvelled at the exuberance and obvious joy with which they played and I was especially taken by David Cohen’s performance on cello, not least by him performing in stockinged feet with his boots by the spike. Very cool.

So, a reading of Eliot’s finest work accompanied by a Beethoven piece to make your bones tingle. Probably one of the best ways to wind down after a funeral.

Only at the Donmar. Bravo.

Four Quartets, Donmar Warehouse

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January 23, 2009

For professional reasons, I have recently been plugging into the oeuvre of TV “investigative journalist” Jacques Peretti and I admit I am totally astonished at the projection his documentaries are afforded by Channel 4.

He seems a nice enough fellow and clearly sincere, but he is somewhat deluded by the seriousness and revelatory value of his “investigations”. At best, they are gossamer thin and reliant on twice-removed sources linked together by a droning monolgue of half-baked, pub-style pontification. Jacques reckons he is cerebrally unraveling his subjects. He is not. As Ally Ross, TV critic of The Sun, brilliantly put it a while back – “Jacques Peretti is the Zen Buddhist of stating the bleeding obvious”.

I had to chuckle last night when I saw Jacques and his hairy arms on yet another plane – LA, New York, Bahamas – to track down yet another nobody who sort of knew Dodi Fayed in a nightclub. His “sources” at best are washed up rent-a-quotes who might be worth chatting to if they popped into the Soho edit suite for ten minutes. But the Bahamas for two minutes of nonsense with Johnny Gold? (Actually, I just looked out the window and now realise – if you’ve got the budget and the suntan lotion, it makes total sense.)

The repetition of the stills photos (Diana on the Jonikal) and archive footage (Dodi getting into a Ford Estate, close up of the cameraman in the reflection of the car window) was nothing short of laughable. But it is Jacques’ Mogadon delivery that takes the forehead slapping biscuit. It is as if by talking ever-so-s-l-o-w-l-y with a dense voice will give veracity and weight to his balsa revelations. It d-o-e-s n-o-t, J-a-c-q-u-e-s.

The Artist dipped in for a few minutes and witnessed Jacques’ interview in the back of a limo with some nobody who vaguely knew Dodi for a bit. In one sweeping statement, based on nothing, Jacques said that Dodi got through a kilo of cocaine a week which “would take some doing”. Before walking straight back out, the Artist observed: “He could do with a kilo of coke to liven him up.”

There is a term in the newspaper business for what Jacques does: cuts jobs. Knit together old material, add archive photos to make it look fancy, bung it all under a new headline and hope no one notices. In an hour long TV doc, there is no hiding place and the holes are too glaring to miss. How can a cuts job be worth an hour on Channel 4? And on such well visited subjects as Dodi Fayed, Paul Burrell, Michael Barrymore? Every person Jacques “investigates” can be easily filed under another journalistic term for subjects no longer of interest: “Those we used to love.”

There’s a fun documentary skit to be done on Jacques. I can even visualise the opening wide shot following the great man going about his “investigative” duties in a cuttings library. A dull, slow voice over begins to tell the story:

“This is Jacques Peretti. Who is he? What drives him? Where did he come from? What issues does he have? etc etc…”

Cut to a row of people on a sofa snoring – ZZZzzzzzzzz.

Jacques Peretti, I Don’t Know What Happened, Channel 4

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May 28, 2008

And, so, to Fountain Studios in Wembley for a seat behind the judges at a live semi-final of Britain’s Got Talent. What an extraordinary experience.

I have dipped into the series since a night of undiluted hilarity at the auditions in Hackney, so the thought of some more live action was an easy lure.

A glass of pink champagne backstage got me in the mood for Simon, Piers and Amanda, and, boy, do you need some happy fuel to attend these shows; the crew get you clapping and on your feet constantly like demented performing seals to generate the feel-good vibe. It is an exhausting two hours which leaves you with raw hands and arthritic knees. But it is worth the effort.

Love it or hate it, BGT is one weird whirl of high purity entertainment – good and bad. It makes you cringe, laugh, cheer, boo and cry all in one fatal dose. You sink at the sight of some of the acts – the clueless Indian magician, that troop of a hundred hopeless dancers, the bin bashers, and Christine Hamilton going for it in the finale of You Raise Me Up. But then you are up-lifted by the endearing, untarnished talent of the chorister – you know, the boy with bad white heads. His Tears In Heaven made me water a bit.

You can’t help but get caught up in it all when you are there. When the agonising moment came for Cowell to cast the deciding vote between Flava and The Cheeky Monkeys, I found myself shouting out loud.

My head knew it should be Flava – the half-baked dance act with “street” kids who want to make something of themselves – but my heart wanted the two cute little blonde kids who, let’s be honest, are too bloody young to be appearing in an event of this scale. Their act makes me feel a bit uncomfortable. In fact, so uncomfortable, that I shouted out their name to help Cowell decide. I was so near to him that I seriously think my shout – and a few others – helped swing it. I was like a parent at a pantomime who had sunk one too many sweet sherries in the interval. Really, I should be ashamed of myself.

Britian’s Got Talent – Semi Finals Live

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February 06, 2008

It is not often that I wake up chuckling into the pillow through a throat made sore by a night of intense, stomach crunching laughter. It is also not often that I burn the toast because my mind is happily distracted by turning over the events of the previous evening. But, then, I had never been to see the auditions for ITV’s ‘Britain’s Got Talent’.

Last night, The Artist and I and a friend sat riveted and contorted through what was probably the funniest, most entertaining – and often excruciating – three hours I have had in, erm, a few decades. We ventured to the Hackney Empire under the invitation of Piers Morgan, an old friend who is now, bizzarely, a bona fide TV star on both sides of the Atlantic.

I must be one of the few people in the land not to have seen one minute of BGT. I was abroad throughout its UK arrival last summer, so I came to it cold last night. And what a delightful, emotionally oscillating shock.

Unfortunately, the poor acoustics meant we could hardly hear Morgan or Amanda Holden’s comments (maybe was a blessing), but Cowell was just a few feet away and he delivered some gems.

We sat through talking and counting (and crapping) parrots, hopeless magicians, tragic clowns (Cowell: “I am allergic to clowns”), overweight teenage Irish dancers in plastic tiaras and frizz wigs, and a fat mum in a vest dancing like Britney Spears who pitched for the sympathy vote with, “I’m doing this for my kids… one of them is disabled”.

Then there was the toe curling embarrassment of “Gunther the Geordie Porn Star” in leopard print briefs practising his pelvic action; Julie, a 41-year-old Southampton Council worker, singing Madonna’s Holiday in overly tight glittered Lycra (Cowell: “You’re like a drunk on a hen night”); and a Norwegian cleaner living in the UK “for time being” (he’s been he eight YEARS) who mimed the effects of being in a storm with a red umbrella.

There were very few genuine acts of talent on what proved to be one of the most fruitless auditions in six weeks of trawling the UK. And Hackney provided the most hostile and cynical of audiences seen by the BGT crew to date. Much has been made in the news recently of the dangers of walking Hackney’s streets at night. Well, I can assure you that its foul-mouthed youth are not to be recommended as companions in the theatre either.

A trainee lawyer dancing like Michael Jackson stole the show and easily made it through to the next round, but I won’t give away the comic brilliance of his act.

I chatted to Cowell and Morgan backstage afterwards. Both looked a touch exhausted and exasperated with the draining demands of the BGT auditions juggernaut. Cowell said that he was running out of things to say to these people, but I beg to differ. The line of the night was all his and it was this one which had me chuckling again in today’s reverie.

It came when a man of 84 called William humbly took to the stage to play Edelweiss on the harmonica. He quietly, but proudly, said he had been playing for 60 years. He then proceeded to silence the baying Empire mob with the dullest, most pedestrian performance in history. There was a very real stench of sympathy and awkwardness. 60 years, for that?

With profound and deadening understatement Cowell looked at him unsmilingly and said: “I think you could do with a little bit more practice.”

Priceless.

Britain’s Got Talent Auditions, Hackney Empire

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Thursday, April 10, 2008

Daft really, to reach out like this, but I have just tuned into one of my favourite events on the sporting calendar – the Masters golf from Augusta – and I am irate enough to react with an angry blog. I had forgotten who is the host these days. Gary bloody Lineker.

Quite simply, he does NOT fit this event.

I felt it in my gut last year. I even reached for the blog back then. There has been much press about Midlands accents of late. Well, I for one don’t want one talking me through this golf tournament. Every time he says “Masstas” I want to club him. I can’t be alone.

Thankfully, I will be on holiday tomorrow and will miss the Masters this year. The only consolation is that I won’t have to watch Lineker at the helm.

Steve Rider get yer bouffant back ‘ere.

Gary Lineker, The Masstas, BBC1

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February 05, 2007

Louis Theroux has been away from TV for a while. I’ve not missed him. He kicked off his new series of BBC2 documentaries with a trip to Las Vegas last night and the publicity suckered me in. After a long break from TV, with the whole world and its nutcases at the mercy of his lens, he goes there. Genius producing. Can you imagine the planning meetings that went into that? Series Producer: “Hey, the Hilton are offering us a freebie to Vegas for a few on-screen plugs, let’s go, do the strip see some strippers.” Louis: “Errrm. Yeah. Well. Hmmm. Yeah.”

But, hey, no matter the jam-packed travel library in existence on Vegas – all made possible with contra-deal kick backs – it is so full of madness and characters that any hack with a camcorder and a decent eye for a story should come up with some entertaining footage and interviews. But not Louis. He couldn’t interview a Martian and get a story if one tugged on his baggy sweater.

For this show, Louis followed a few hapless gamblers and showed them to be hopeless losers. Gosh, sad gamblers found in Vegas, they lose money. I was staggered. Then Louis played the tables himself – twice. Original, imaginative. In terms of creativity, this show was tantamount to going on a junket to Vegas and staying at the airport to play the first 25 cent slot machine you see, then coming home.

If this loser of a show was the lead doc in the series, I doubt I will gamble any more time on Louis. He has no basic sense of how to ask questions or develop an interview with any depth. And once you are bored of his limp, whimpering delivery, and over-played laid back approach – if indeed you ever liked it – there is nowhere to go. I’ve always felt he was over-rated.

Louise Theroux in Las Vegas, BBC2

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February 14, 2007

I stand accused of wasting an hour and a half of my life last night watching BBC2’s The Verdict. I hang my head in shame and plead guilty and ask for countless other similar telly violations of my freedom to be taken into consideration. My sentence? To watch the remaining episodes of this absurdly enjoyable tripe.

I missed the opening up of this “case”, so I’m slightly off the pace, but that hasn’t hindered me from easing into the role of a hang ’em high judge and jury. In fact, I couldn’t give a bowl of salty porridge about the blokes in the dock, or the weepers in witess box. No, naturally, I’m judging all the celebrities. They’re all in the dock here, of course that’s what this is about – it’s a reality show with a stocking over its grubby little face as a disguise. And I know for certain they are all GUILTY.

Yep, guilty, I say. First up is chuffing Ingrid Tarrant. She is guilty of suddenly making me feel empathy with Chris for going AWOL in his marriage. Next is Jennifer Wotshername-like for giving further incontrovertible evidence – recently displayed by Danielle Windyarse-like from CBB – that the scouse accent is the most tikcth (sic: thick) sounding and irritating in Britain. Then there is the ex-soap Ginga, up on charges of continuing to impersonate a bad EastEnders character. Her claim that she is just a Patsy is inadmissable.

Then there’s the bloke from Blur – Alex James – who looks like he is a few glugs away from rehab’. (Apologies if he is actually in recovery). I interviewed Collymore and Archer last year, so I know their form. Therefore, I convict them both without a pause for breath. Well, let’s face it, Collymore is always upto no good and Archer is always guilty. Who have I missed? Oh, yes, Jacqueline Gold. She is so quiet I think she must have been winded by sitting on an oversize Rampant Rabbit. Then we have old rubber nose, bloaty-face Michael Portillo. He is guilty of making me think that he is actually half-sensible, such is the company he keeps. There are a few others who are simply guilty of table manners affray and for consuming stolen goods – champagne and lorry-loads of food – all proven to be owned by hard-up Licence Payers.

But the main culprit in The Verdict so far is Megaman – or MegaChippyMan. He is exercising his right to remain silent with a violent stare. He has brought a stack of pre-conceived ideas, personal issues and prejudices into the jury room and dat ain’t allowed, man. His main crime, however, is being caught in possession of an over-loaded, dangerous wardrobe, including diamonte studded CK sunglasses worn with no sense of embarrassment in a darkened dining room. He stands accused of using this wardrobe with malicious intent to pass off as a successful gangsta rapper.

Everyone in this show keeps saying – “You’ve got to go on the EVIDENCE”. Well, I’ve seen enough, yer Crusty Old Honour.

Take ’em all down.

The Verdict, BBC2

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And, so, to the art world and last night’s private view for Marcel Dzama’s new work at Timothy Taylor’s gallery in Mayfair. Waiters in black Zorro masks greeted me with a choice between a bottle of Peroni and a glass of chilled Petit Chablis. A brash, post-minimalist bar, but evocative and splendidly purist. It spoke to me. Still off the beer, I went for a splash of wine. Very nice, too, I thank you, Timothy, but I’ve got to say, it all went a bit downhill after that.

There’s clearly a buzz and dazzle around Dzama, what with his (group) shows at MoMA, but on the evidence of last night it is a wonder to me how this Canadian is generating such attention – and prices. Now, I’m all in favour and praise of people who express their creativity. Bravo to them. I can’t speak for Dzama’s previous work – which may well be amazing, visionary, cutting edge, it may even be good – but this show was thin, to say the least. Less than a Size 0. In fact, if you had phoned up ITV to vote for this exhibition, you would rightly claim you had been short-changed.

The work derives from a 30 minute film (art show screenings only, not yer local multiplex) Dzama made a while back called The Lotus Eaters. It includes images of characters, many in Zorro masks with black beaked noses, sitting on dead tree trunks. You know, I can barely recall a clear image this morning, such was the lasting resonance of his faces. They looked like the rejected off-cuts on a cartoonist’s studio floor.

Also on display were some furry costume heads from Dzama’s “film”. I have seen more dramatic and better constructed models made by 10 year olds with papier mache and ping-pong balls. But, here in Mayfair with beer and wine, these heads and pictures are art, and fairly expensive art at that. One gallery sales person, visibly twitching with glee, told me that most were already sold. The small, unappealing water colours were $10-15,000 a shot and one medium-size montage was $45,000. Average-to-low pricing in this genre and I would have got one or two for the hell of collecting, but I didn’t have any change on me.

The information sheet handed out last night explained Dzama’s talent and inspiration thus: “The long, dark, cold Winnipeg winters meant that Marcel spent a lot of time inside drawing a dystopian world inhabited by femmes fatale, bats, bears, cowboys and superheroes.” Hmm, I stayed in a lot drawing when it shanked down in Bromley when I was a kid. But when does childhood cartooning become art? When an art dealer tells his people, that’s when.

Now, I’ve been to countless private views in the past few years and I’ve done all the main London art shows, and, well, the whole shebang leaves me ever more puzzled. The big fairs seem to be little more than a free-drink fest, with hoards of liggers staggering around in a fug of cheap, New World chardonnay or shiraz looking with ever deteriorating eye-sight at works of questionable quality and depth, let alone basic intrigue or beauty. The contemporary art world is thriving like never before and is awash with money and product. Of course, it is not all bad, but why such continuing hype about so little?

Well, here’s a thing. I completed my first painting on canvas last weekend. It was an oddly rewarding experience, especially as it began with a definite twinge of panic and artist’s angst when I first stared at the blank canvas. I suddenly connected with all the grand Masters who had hunched over an easel before me. We were one.

But it’s not that hard, you know. A short while later I had produced a picture that is a compelling, poignant and painful depiction of personal suffering and 21st century alienation. Or, indeed, it could also be a quite colourful abstract miniature with a circle and some blocks.

I’m thinking of exhibiting my solitary picture here, then you can all decide. The price? Let’s leave that to the dealers…

Marcel Dzama: Le Review

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July 17, 2007

So, what’s a newly married man supposed to do when he gets his first night away from the new wife? Go on a heavy session with the lads and re-tread old haunts? It’s a bit soon for nostalgia for me, so last Friday I did what any self-respecting bloke without a functioning telly would do – I took a long slow walk to the Royal Albert Hall, via the Anglesea, for my first Prom.

I thought I would sample a last-minute “gallery” ticket for a fiver to listen to some quality classical music at feet tingling altitude amongst the “Prommers”. Puffing slightly, I finally arrived at the top deck of the RAH and knew immediately this is not the way I want to listen to Beethoven’s 9th, a much-loved personal favourite.

I’m all up for new experiences, me, but up there I found it infested with a hairy bunch of unkempt, bare-or-soily-sock-footed, picnic-munching,soap-swerving fuddy-duddies and trainee old-before-their-timers. It was like an airport lounge during the French air traffic controllers’ annual strike, with Prommers stretched out on chequered blankets guarding their six-inch sections of laced iron balustrade like sentries in Stalag 17. Elgar’s notes crawled up gasping from below to wrestle for ear-space with the crackle of crisp packets, the fingering of strawberries in creased plastic punnets, and embarrassed usherettes hissing at people to drink their chardonnay contraband outside. Tell me, what is the F-flat point of coming to a classical concert if all you want to do is stuff your big fat furry face? How will you ever know your arse from your oboe if you’ve got a gob full of Walkers?

I immediately regretted not buying a £35 best seat in romantic pursuit of a new experience, so I did the next best thing – I craned over a coleslaw and tomato salad box to scope the arena below for an empty seat. I spotted a cluster of six-or-so near the stage. Years of events experience has taught me that there is no such thing as a 100% sell out, even the First Night of the Proms. And, one tip, if you are ever going to jib in and risk the humiliation of being the only lemon left standing in a fully seated arena, you may as well shoot for the best of the best seats.

So, while the mob was getting stuck into dessert during the interval, I ghosted into the main auditorium and took up position in my new swivel velvet aisle seat in Row 7 – right next to the choir, behind the violins, beside the percussion man and the nervous fellow checking the position of a tiny triangle for the hundredth time. If I had been any nearer to the orchestra, I would have been taking precise instructions from the conductor. But the best thing of all, I was about 3,000ft below the fetid munchers.

And there I waited, indeed sweated, to see if anyone would claim this sensational seat. It was an anxious wait as late-comers piled in for the main event and the vacant cluster was reduced to just one single spare – mine. I have never been happier to hear the opening bars of the 9th. But, my oh my, was it worth the worry. What followed was one of my personal all-time great entertainment pieces, 70 minutes of unadulterated, goose-bumping joy. There are few things in life more inspiring and uplifting than seeing a full orchestra playing in unison.

I’ve “seen” the 9th a few times before and it always makes me cry. Not in a blubbing, hanky-soaked style, but in the simple welling up way. Such is the power of this piece live that my eyes had filled up again within a few minutes of this performance. And the aural power surge when the magnificent double choir – TWO HUNDRED AND SEVENTY EIGHT OF THEM! – stood up for the finale almost lifted me out of my free seat to join in. Even watching the high pressure moment when Triangle Man’s moment cometh was truly memorable. He successfully filled the Albert Hall with his little instrument and I saw the relief on his face from about four feet.

Anyway, don’t take my word for it. The piece is playing again during this Prom season. My advice: Go, see, hear it for yourself. Forget the gallery. Leave them to their dinner. Spend more, get a good last minute seat. It was the best thirty five quid I never spent.

The Proms – Beethoven’s 9th

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August 17, 2007

Wish me luck, I’m heading off on a Ryanair flight today. This is despite vowing two years ago, after a miserable journey from Pisa, never to travel with them again.

Back then, I said I would happily pay whatever extra it costs to avoid being buffeted along by the elbows and shoulders of sweating, wheezing fellow travellers, as we were herded to a shock yellow seat for the joy of flying to the appalling shrill of in-flight advertising over the Tannoy. What a way to treat your customers.

But what did it for me with Ryanair was the baggage weight charade at check-in at Pisa. My relatively minimal holiday baggage had beefed up a touch, thanks to a paltry, single case of fine Tuscan red I had sourced from a small vineyard outside Montepuliciano. To take it home, I would have to pay excess baggage which negated any previous saving. The Artist and I shuffled off and re-arranged the bags to sneakily spread the load into our hand luggage. It felt cheap and pathetic, yet while we did this, we watched several people check in without a hitch after us despite clearly having eaten their life’s quota of pizza and pasta while on holiday.

Tell me, where is the fairness in penalising passengers who might be, hmmm, on the slimmer side for carrying a few extra pounds in a bag, when Mr and Mrs Golightly are packing an added, say, ten stones between them around their midriffs and derrieres?

Well, I’m heading off on Ryanair for this weekend break because no other airline goes to this destination at anything near a reasonable rate. To avoid putting bags in the hold and to keep within the hand luggage weight, I have studied the baggage dimensions and restrictions on the Ryanair website like a swot in A-level week. God help me. Consequently, I am travelling lighter than ever in my life. Robair – no frills indeed.

Ryan Air

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September 04, 2007

Monday night veg-out saw me tuck into a double portion of gut-churning culinary TV turkey, ‘Nigella Express’ and ‘Hell’s Kitchen’.

I had just rustled up a vegetarian shepherd’s pie, then failed to answer the closing questions on University Challenge, when up popped Nigella. At times, I wonder what onyx stone I have been living under because the entire Nigella Goddess phenomena-thingy pretty much passed me by, but suddenly here she was, in super nauseating close up, super glammed-up, and oh-so-super, super-sized in her super home.

Really, this programme had me spluttering on my lentils from start to finish. It was an unexpected, unintentional comedy gem. I found myself waiting for Nigella to suddenly double up over her spare tyre with laughter as the camera pulled back to reveal Richard Curtis, script in hand, directing a Comic Relief special. It is beyond parody.

Nigella, oh-so-busy, oh-so-stressed, hopping into a black taxi to the Waitrose in Belgravia, then back in a taxi to her hellish Eton Square home, then cooking frantically in her Mayfair restaurant-spec kitchen for her family and chums. I’m sure the stress of the taxi trips resonated with all those who struggle on the bus to the local Lidl with ten quid to feed five.

But it was Nigella’s menu that had me tickling the belly lard with mirth. Pork chops fried in oil with a double cream mustard sauce and gnocchi, or deep fried calamari with garlic mayonnaise. The gut-busting coupe de grace was Nigella coming home to twinkling Christmas lights after a liver full of champers, to curl up in bed with a couple of stale croissants baked in cream and egg. And, then, she came back for more with EXTRA cream before settling down for a late night heart attack. Hilarious. Rename this show ‘Nigella’s Express Taxi Route To Becoming A Fat Knacker’.

Another fat knacker turned up in ITV’s Hell’s Kitchen – Mark Peter White from Leeds, aka Marco Pierre White. Marco kept going on about the fact that he hadn’t been in a kitchen for seven and a half years. By the size of him, he couldn’t have been far from one. If anything, he looks like he’s spent the best part of his resting years on a park bench, or in a box on the Embankment. Marco sounds addled and looks so poorly he can only be a packet of fags or a Nigella pudding away from a defibrillator.

I presume the intention behind such a “Legend” doing this crass – and, it has to be confessed, pathetically addictive show – is to re-heat the souffle of his former glory. Well, by the sight of this opener, it ain’t gonna rise an inch. Would your taste buds get wet at the thought of Marco sweating and wheezing over your grub, his infested hair swooshing around while he man-handles it all with his grubby savaloy fingers? (I never realised just how much grease-ball chefs handle the food until these shows. Urgh).

Oddly enough, Marco didn’t come across as the beast that everyone at ITV expects, indeed insists. If anything, he seemed nervous and genuinely encouraging and avuncular to his hapless “celebrities”, rather than truly nasty like Ramsay. Maybe this genuine nicer side of him will gradually come across more and save his bacon.

But there is only one way to beef up Hell’s Kitchen and make it a dish worth serving: bring in Nigella.

Note: Since writing this blog, it has been revealed that Nigella’s home shots are a big fat porky pie and actually filmed in a studio in South London.

Nigella’s Express, Channel 4 (aka Fat Knacker Night)

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Tuesday, October 02, 2007

A simple, quick tip on a fabulous restaurant I visited last Friday: Baltic. It’s been there for about six years and already has a huge following and great reviews, but has only just beeped onto my radar. Always up to speed, me. (Apparently, AA Gill slagged it originally, but has been seen back there many times).

The theme of the restaurant is Eastern European and has the most amazing, mouthwatering original menu. If I only I could remember the names of the dishes to make your mouth water. The trouble is, the tradition at Baltic is to serve a variety of head-banging home-made vodkas throughout your meal. Slam dunk those on top of some superb Meursault, Margaux and a Brunello to boot, then you know you will have to relive the experience just to anchor it properly in your memory.

That said, the Scottish Rock Oysters (er, is Scotland near the Baltic?) were silver slick, the Siberian dumplings with veal and pork were sweet and moreish and the bleeding lamb was so tender I started stamping the ground like thumper. For the life of me I cannot remember what I had for dessert. I blame the pre-pudding strawberry vodka.

B-Baltic is a b-brilliant, b-buzzing restaurant. Go there for a b-big b-blow out. It is so good it is almost memorable.

Note: I have just noticed that Baltic has made into the Evening Standard’s restaurant critic Fay Maschler’s top 25 London restaurants in today’s (3rd Oct) paper.

Baltic Restaurant, London SE1

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November 14, 2007

As I am sure you are beginning to make last minute arrangements for your winter or New Year holidays, can I just stop by with a couple of recommendations following a glorious trip earlier this year.

The Madikwe Lodge safari lodge in South Africa is sensational. Luxurious and beautiful private rooms are carved into the granite of the local rock formations, with heated floors and a private plunge pool. You even get a private outdoor bath and shower overlooking the bush. Well, totally private except for the elephants and lions looking on – in awe – as they drink at a nearby watering hole. The Madikwe staff are fantastic, as is the food. The game drives are terrific and we easily saw many multiples of four of the Big Five (the leopards eluded us) – thanks to our cheerful, eagle-eyed tracker Johannes. What a star – although one lion got a little too close and looked me square (meal?) in the eye. Most memorable sight, apart form the animals, has to be the Mars-red, iron rich earth. I even brought some home to create my own paint. (Exhibition to be announced soon).

Mauritius is only a four hour flight from Johannesburg and is an ideal place for a beach side crash out after an exhausting safari. I would strongly recommend the Hilton. I always expect the worst when I hear that name – an air-con, high rise, business hotel – but this one is part of the five star ‘Hilton Worldwide’ range. It is stunning and lacks the stuffiness of some of the other five star resorts. I finally cracked mono water skiing, thanks to Tom from the newly installed Mark Warner water sports centre, and I had the best acupressure massages in my life at the dedicated health spa.

Both these trips can be booked via the Virgin Holidays website or by calling: 0871 222 0307.

One last tip (plug): Virgin Upper Class to South Africa is superb. But make sure you give yourself a good two hours in the Clubhouse at Heathrow – just so you are, ahem, nicely relaxed for that strenuous flight.

Madike Hills Game Lodge, South Africa

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December 03, 2007

Many months ago I enjoyed a one night stay at Champneys Tring. If I was a politician, I guess I would have to make various declarations, or – more likely – not make any declarations, only to have The Guardian tell me later that the bill was settled by someone else.

Anyway, if you are thinking you are in need of a detox to prepare for all those Christmas parties, or indeed you are planning a New You for the New Year, then you could do worse than book a mini health farm break at one of the Champneys resorts. The facilities at the one in Tring are superb. A sumptuous spa, immaculate grounds, great massages and numerous other treatments, excellent food and the giant bed in a Premier room gave me the best sleep in months. It was wonderful to see Frank Bruno happily clocking up the miles on the treadmill in the gym, although it was something of a shock to have Cherie Blair plonk herself down near me in the chill out zone in her white toweling robe.

Champneys is on its game and I’m told that the company will soon launch a number of city “Day Spas” across the country.

There you go, just a tip to lift any winter health blues.

Champneys Tring

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December 21, 2006

Time for some serious product placement: Le Grand Hotel, Paris. Go and stay there. I spent a few nights with the Artist there recently and it was, well, magnifique. I needed to be there, as opposed to any other hotel, to do some top-up research for a book I am currently re-igniting. Certain key scenes happened there in 1914. Oh, the wilful intrigue of my vagueness.

Le Grand is a big hotel and part of the Intercontinental Hotels Group. It might not be everyone’s idea of a romantic Parisian bolthole. There are plenty of bijoux hotels in the 6th, but I always feel a bit uncomfortable in places of limited staffing – you know, when the same face pops up in different areas of the hotel, or the worn out Monsieur on the front desk knows too much about your movements. I need the freedom of anonymity you get in a big hotel to help me switch off.

If you are looking for immaculate, yet understated five star service that is devoid of stuffiness, then you will struggle to do better than Le Grand. The IHG group are currently on a mission to offer a more chilled out first class service across all their hotels. It works here already. The hotel, which is one of the oldest large hotels in Paris, had a major re-fit in 2002, so it is finely spruced throughout. Our room was luxurious and overlooked the Opera House. Recent modern additions to the hotel include a small, but perfectly adequate spa. Despite the lush re-furb, the cosmetic traditions of the hotel’s more famous older parts have been preserved. There’s the relaxing Winter Garden central atrium, the exquisite Cafe de la Paix with its ornate splendour (what a place for breakfast) and then there is the devine, gilt-mirrored oval ballroom called the Salon Opera. Take your girl for a private waltz here beneath the giant crystal chandelier. This is where Daniel Craig hosted the post-premiere party for James Bond’s Casino Royale in November, so if you’ve got two left feet she can at least close her eyes and think of him.

So, if you are considering a break in Paris, think of Le Grand. If not to stay, then maybe for a meal, or afteroon tea, or a flute of champagne. Or, indeed, a dance. Feel free to mention my name.

InterContinental Hotels – Le Grand, Paris

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November 12, 2006

Still socially gated, with the advanced stages of cabin fever taking grip, I decided to cheer myself up and get a count-my-blessings reality check by watching Channel 4’s The Somme. It was all the things you hoped for and dreaded. I’m not sure it actually taught me anything new. I’ve read a bit about WW1 over the years and dip into the war poets frequently. A few lines from them take you there with a jolt. This show was another one of those good reminders. It was moving, gruesome, at times heart-wrenching and, naturally, it made me feel lucky to be on a sofa with a slight ankle injury and an organic beer in my hand, not a rifle and trench foot with someone about to blow a whistle to signify my imminent execution.

The re-enactments were skilfully filmed and the detail of the research of the personal stories particularly, as well as the military overview itself, was admirable. Such was the detail that the programme – coming in at two hours, five minutes – seemed to last as long as the battle itself. At times, I thought I wasn’t going to make it to the end either.

A couple of observations: How can you spend all that time building up the stories of characters and then dismiss their ultimate destinies in a picture caption? Young “Cyril” was one of 27 out of 1,000 who survived in his attack zone and went on to become a “communist”. Blimey, that begged a few more pars. And Captain May asked a fellow soldier to look out for his beloved “wife and baby”. If we know that much detail, surely the researchers can tell us what happened to his good lady and child?

But the coup de grace whinge for me is this: as the credits rolled and the horrific collage swilled in my disturbed mind, the syrupy tones of the Channel 4 voice-over woman suddenly broke the dark spell. “We apologise for any bad language that featured in this programme.” WHAT! Give me fucking strength, you stupid twats. Whoever makes rules that state these pathetic apologies must be made at the end of documentaries of such power should be put up against a wall and shot.

The Somme – Channel 4

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November 07, 2006

Carina Round is from Wolverhampton and has been signed by Dave Stewart to his Interscope label. Unsurprisingly, I had never heard of her, but I’ll give a her a name-check here. You never know, it might help. Her debut album was due out in October, but has been delayed and will be out next year. She was doing a short, showcase gig at a club called Stereo, way out on West 29th Street and 10th Avenue. I’d never been that far west in the city before. I stood alongside a pop legend who I had interviewed earlier in the day – it pains me not to name drop – and about 50 others as she rattled through five numbers. I only mention this gig because I think she has something.

I am not moved to write a full review here, although I will say that she has a powerful voice and a definite stage charisma. She lead sings while playing electric guitar in a band. The style is on the rock side of pop. Plenty of noise, energy and passion. Raven-haired and in a 50’s black dress with an extravagant pink trim, Carina looks good and has an amusing knock-kneed dance style when she’s in the grip of a song. I’d probably put her down as a mix between Alanis Morissette and Bjork. A fairly potent blend. I liked her voice. It has power and versatliltiy and there’s a freshness there. I’ve dipped into the promo’ CD her “people” gave me since I’ve been back and there are some growers. There was too much noise at that mini gig to get too carried away, but I liked her. Certainly, the volume of her delivery made my swollen ankle tremble. It was like having very aggresssive ultra sound treatment.

I went on to two parties with Carina and her bass player, Smudger, after the gig. I know, such rock ‘n’ roll. In truth, the parties were average-to-shite, but Carina and I chatted like old mates. That’s showbiz for you. She’s a lively character and has a bucket load of attitude and, I think/hope, the talent to match. If nothing else, she can neck beer with the best of us. If she makes it, she’ll probably be hell for her PRs but good for the rest of us because she speaks her mind. Journos take note: even though I wasn’t working as such that night, I could tell that there is a story there in her background. You just know where there is good copy. So, if she gets a hit, at least the publicity shouldn’t be too much bother. Good luck to her.

Carina Round – Showcase Gig, NYC

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November 07, 2006

Thankfully, for this interview job (pop group Duran Duran), I was switched at the last minute from the Hell Inn in Harlem to the Grand Hyatt on Park Avenue at Grand Central. I think it was by way of an apology for the Jalfreizi Jet. Things didn’t start well.

I got out of my yellow cab, disorientated and feeling slightly sick after a brake, accelerate, honk horn, neck-jarring ride from JFK through the rush hour. The driver was straight from Central Casting’s “surly, grunting oaf” category. I sat there wondering if I had the bottle to commit the sin of sins in New York and not tip the taxi man [20% meant an extra $10. All non-recouperable]. It is easier to walk by a starving blind mother with her three maimed children on the pavement than get out of a cab without tipping, but I did indeed have the nerve and experienced what can only have been instant karma, Big Apple-style.

He dumped me about ten feet from the curb. A doorman arrived, one palm naturally wide open. I alighted, cases in hand, and stepped on an uneven tarmac patch by a manhole and immediately went over on my left ankle. I am not talking just a wobble and stagger. I mean, right over, ligament stretching over. Screeching agony over. “FUCK!” I shouted at the top of my voice, trying to maintain my balance. “FUCK!” “FUUUUUCK!” Pain ripped through me. I looked up and there were about 30 people standing on the side walk staring at me. Not one person offered to help or smiled in sympathy. Welcome. The doorman heard my accent and sensed there was no money in injured British people, so he ignored me, too.

The one upside to this injury: the agony instantly cured my toothache.

The Grand Hyatt. Not a bad hotel, in a business-travel sort of functional way. I think it has had a major refit in recent times and I’m told that Hyatts generally have upped their game. The lobby of this one is a hideous landfill of brown marble with an absurdly large water feature-cum-fountain dominating the entire atrium. The rooms are spacious and clean and the beds are vast kings with decent pillows and soft linen. The woman on the reservations desk had no idea I was now operating on one leg but, by fluke, she gave me a room for the disabled. The bathroom was a wet room, ie: no bath, just an open space beneath the shower. I was desperate for a long, soothing bath but I was in so much pain I could not face the hassle of moving. I learnt later that the tiler hadn’t bothered putting a gradient in the floor tiles because my shower flooded the bathroom. He probably got tipped well for the shoddy work though. I built a dam by rolling long white towels and immediately felt bad about the enviroment and all that extra detergent going into the oceans. It’s Room 2740 that is liable to flooding, if anyone is interested. I would hate for anyone to aquaplane out of the 27th floor in their wheelchair.

What more can I say about the Grand Hyatt: $299 per night plus taxes totalling $44.40 is pretty good value for central Manhatttan. Naturally, like all hotels, they totally fleece you for using the telephone, but the breakfasts are good [$32, plus tip – even though it is a self-service buffet. Explain that]. I could go on, but if I write any more, I’ll be looking for a little friendly bonus…

Grand Hyatt Hotel, New York

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Oh, how I loathe the piece of scum who burgled our house. Forgetting the loss of treasured property, I am now on Day Two of the nightmare admin’ of cleaning up after the bastard.

I have lost track of how many phone calls I have had to make to cancel cards, organise new phones etc. Any idea how many call centre menus you have to endure to re-boot the technical essentials of life. Don’t ask me about the expense. I’ve just been told of the bill I can expect to re-programme my car alarm to make sure one of the burglar’s mates doesn’t pop by with the keys he nicked and drive off with my car. I’d far rather buy some new clothes, thanks very much. But, no, I’ve got to mop up the mess.

I’m thinking of standing for Parliament and will probably fight a campaign on a crime and order ticket for Chelsea. Top of my policies will, naturally, be to bring back the birch for all petty crimes – anti-social behaviour, vandalism etc – and double strokes for muggers and, of course, burglars.

Call me old fashioned, but I seriously think a spot of public flogging in Sloane Square would clean up the scum more quickly than non-sentences from weak, PC-driven judges, extra free money and holidays abroad paid for by the State.

Be a good fellow and pass me the black shirt.

Do bring back the birch, dear boy

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I am sickened and utterly infuriated to see the way our country is being led. Never before in my life have I felt so politically motivated than now.

We suffered years of false promises under that lying charlatan Tony Blair and now we continue to be ruled by this (unelected) conniving and hopeless lame duck of a Prime Minster in Gordon Brown. How can this be so?

Surely we are edging ever closer to a revolution? It is time the right-thinking, honest, great silent majority who make this country tick stood up and marched on Westminster to force Brown to call an election. Britain MUST be able to move on. We MUST be heard.

Forget the low life who milk the Nanny State while thieving from everyone else, or the super rich who float above all the fallout from this political mess. It is down to US. It is time for the normal, law abiding, tax paying folk to make their voice heard.

This Government is toast. And, to use the cockney slang: Gordon is brown bread.

Our Prime Minister is TOAST. Let the country move on

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NEWS FLASH: My home was burgled last night while my family and I slept upstairs.

Some jolly piece of slime, fish-hooked the front door keys through the letter box, let themselves in and filled their pockets with some of our kit. They took my wallet and cash and my treasured watch – a Breitling Premier from 1998. It was reasonably expensive – £2,000 – but had plenty of irreplaceable sentimental value. It actually cost me nothing because I won it in the Harbour Club tennis competition ten years ago. It’s the only thing I have bloody won, so how valuable is that!?

Worst still, they took my wife’s much cherished “Stalk” bag and her expensive purse – both presents for her 40th birthday last year. On top of this, they took my car keys and ransacked the car, taking the hi-fi system. They left the car. Clearly my ten year old Saab with the knackered non-convertible roof ain’t worf the bovver.

They also took our mobile phones, so if you get a few dodgy calls on your ********747 private mobile number Richard (Branson), many apologies.

If any of you get offered any of this gear down the boozer some time from some thieving scum, do give me a call. I hate these people with a vengeance, but if there were no buyers for stolen gear, they would be out of business in a heart beat.

Been burgled… watch out for my watch

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I must be getting touchy in my advancing years, but I am irked by Stephen Fry’s delight in slandering the entire journalistic profession. He calls journalists “venal and disgusting” in his hissy little tirade to Michael Crick on Newsnight.

Fry has had his bent snout in the trough of publicity for decades for the convenience of promoting his wares and journalists have helped him no end in the advancement of his success.

It would be good to see the media snap back a little and ban Fry from all interviews. His publicists would love that. If journalists are that bad, matey, why talk to them at all?

Venal interviewers should delight in banning Fry

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Just to let my loyal and wonderful regular readers know that this Blog is being cryogenically frozen while I attend to the busyness of life.

Adieu

I’ll be back when things begin to thaw

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It was remiss of me not to note a particularly inspiring evening recently (15th January).

Fresh from Bob Warren’s funeral – with a crackling vintage recording of Tiptoe Through the Tulips, which was played at his commendation, still making me smile – I alighted alone at the Donmar Warehouse for an evening with T.S Eliot. Death and Eliot are comfortable companions.

I was there to hear a reading of Eliot’s Four Quartets. Eliot’s poetry has been an enduring presence in my life since studying some of his key pieces at A-Level. Four Quartets are timeless, multi-layered masterpieces; lyrically mesmerising, endlessly challenging and, it has to be said, quite beautifully bewildering. Little Gidding is my favourite. A section of it is framed on my desk and a small pencil portrait of Eliot by Wyndham Lewis is white-tacked to the wall.

I have not been to a poetry recital this side of my functioning memory and I have never heard Four Quartets, so this was quite a treat. It was recited by Stephen Dillane as part of the Donmar’s Eliot festival. Where else could one find such a festival than at the courageous, broad thinking Donmar? I applaud Michael Grandage’s versatility and vision for the Donmar in general and in particular for this programme.

Dillane’s recital was skilled and accomplished. To recite all four parts of this lengthy and complex poem is nothing short of remarkable. He gave a beguiling performance, although I have to say it lacked something for me. It is hard to isolate exactly what that something was. He certainly brought the poem to life and it illuminated several parts to me, even though I have read it all many times. I guess one of the obstacles is that I have only ever heard Eliot’s recorded reading, or listened to my own internal voice. It is a bit like the experience of watching the film of a book that is special to you. It is impossible for the images to live up to your imagination. How on earth could Dillane reflect or replace the images from a hundred readings? Also, I attach more melancholy to the piece than his portrayal provided and I have always associated it with an older voice. He was quizzical and frivolous in places where I see nothing short of despair. Still, I thoroughly enjoyed his work and respect his achievement.

The evening was closed with a stunning performance of Beethoven’s opus 132 by a string quartet of the Soloists of the Philharmonia Orchestra. With fitting drama and atmosphere, they were lit by just a single bulb from an overhead light. I marvelled at the exuberance and obvious joy with which they played and I was especially taken by David Cohen’s performance on cello, not least by him performing in stockinged feet with his boots by the spike. Very cool.

So, a reading of Eliot’s finest work accompanied by a Beethoven piece to make your bones tingle. Probably one of the best ways to wind down after a funeral.

Only at the Donmar. Bravo.

Quality is now and Donmar

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I hear that Natasha Kaplinsky will work part time as Five’s newsreader when she returns after maternity leave. Well, here’s introducing an as yet undiscovered “autocutie” to occupy the sofa for the other bulletins! (Picture courtesy of Phil Adams)

The New Spangles!

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I won’t trouble with all the pain I have endured nurturing the Access Interviews.com website, but I am delighted to celebrate its first birthday today.

To think, a year ago today the world did not have a brilliant website dedicated to the best interviews by the most skillful interviewers in the world. I am proud to say that we now have a loyal and ever growing audience, respect and avid interest from many of the main power players in the media, and some great plans in the pipeline that will take A.I onto a bigger and even more exciting level. On top of this we also have a fine sponsor in the form of the revolutionary credit card company Caxton fx. Our thanks to them.

To tie in with A.I’s first anniversary, I have written an article for the media section of today’s Independent. It was trimmed a bit, which is always annoying, so you can catch the full version here.

Also today, we have unveiled the long awaited results of the 1st Access Interviews Awards. We reveal the most popular aspects of the website throughout 2008 and poke a bit of fun at some of the leading lights of interviewing business. Best not take all this interviewing stuff too seriously, eh.

Here’s to another great year ahead for Access Interviews.com…

A.I’s 1st Birthday. Ahhh, bless

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Like countless others, I made a point of watching Jonathan Ross’s return on Friday. In a silly way, it was sort of good to see him back. That feeling didn’t last long.

Don’t get me wrong, I like Jonathan Ross. His apology was genuine and heartfelt and I was pleased to hear him he say it. Good on him, I thought, you’re a decent chap.

The twobble with Jonathan Ross is that he is a totally wubbish interviewer. For a chat show host, who gets unmatched access to the biggest names on the planet, that is a pretty serious problem.

I have thought this for years and gave up watching his show yonks ago. His puerile pursuit of a cheap gag at the expense and often embarrassment of his guests is nothing short of irritating. I have seen him throw away the chance of a good interview so often it became pointless watching. He just pisses me off.

I dipped back in on Friday and it was like a flashback up there with Life On Mars. Forget the inane chats with Fry and Evans – you know they will be crass encounters – it was his hopeless talk with Tom Cruise that did it for me. Now I know Cruise is an old pro who will only give away what he wants, but that is no excuse for babbling on over him like an idiot and asking one daft closed question after another, building up to a cross examination about his farting habits. Can Ross and his researchers, producers, and writers not come up with half a dozen decent questions for a fascinating double A-list star like Cruise. If not, then why the heck do they have the keys to this show.

Ross’s career should survive his foul mouth, no problem. But it should not survive gross incompetence at the very thing he is hired to do: interview. Give this wannabe comedian £6m for a game show and be done with it. Then get a journalist in his interviewing chair. I’ve heard enough.

Woss is wubbish at interwoowing

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For professional reasons, I have recently been plugging into the oeuvre of TV “investigative journalist” Jacques Peretti and I admit I am totally astonished at the projection his documentaries are afforded by Channel 4.

He seems a nice enough fellow and clearly sincere, but he is somewhat deluded by the seriousness and revelatory value of his “investigations”. At best, they are gossamer thin and reliant on twice-removed sources linked together by a droning monolgue of half-baked, pub-style pontification. Jacques reckons he is cerebrally unraveling his subjects. He is not. As Ally Ross, TV critic of The Sun, brilliantly put it a while back – “Jacques Peretti is the Zen Buddhist of stating the bleeding obvious”.

I had to chuckle last night when I saw Jacques and his hairy arms on yet another plane – LA, New York, Bahamas – to track down yet another nobody who sort of knew Dodi Fayed in a nightclub. His “sources” at best are washed up rent-a-quotes who might be worth chatting to if they popped into the Soho edit suite for ten minutes. But the Bahamas for two minutes of nonsense with Johnny Gold? (Actually, I just looked out the window and now realise – if you’ve got the budget and the suntan lotion, it makes total sense.)

The repetition of the stills photos (Diana on the Jonikal) and archive footage (Dodi getting into a Ford Estate, close up of the cameraman in the reflection of the car window) was nothing short of laughable. But it is Jacques’ Mogadon delivery that takes the forehead slapping biscuit. It is as if by talking ever-so-s-l-o-w-l-y with a dense voice will give veracity and weight to his balsa revelations. It d-o-e-s n-o-t, J-a-c-q-u-e-s.

The Artist dipped in for a few minutes and witnessed Jacques’ interview in the back of a limo with some nobody who vaguely knew Dodi for a bit. In one sweeping statement, based on nothing, Jacques said that Dodi got through a kilo of cocaine a week which “would take some doing”. Before walking straight back out, the Artist observed: “He could do with a kilo of coke to liven him up.”

There is a term in the newspaper business for what Jacques does: cuts jobs. Knit together old material, add archive photos to make it look fancy, bung it all under a new headline and hope no one notices. In an hour long TV doc, there is no hiding place and the holes are too glaring to miss. How can a cuts job be worth an hour on Channel 4? And on such well visited subjects as Dodi Fayed, Paul Burrell, Michael Barrymore? Every person Jacques “investigates” can be easily filed under another journalistic term for subjects no longer of interest: “Those we used to love.”

There’s a fun documentary skit to be done on Jacques. I can even visualise the opening wide shot following the great man going about his “investigative” duties in a cuttings library. A dull, slow voice over begins to tell the story:

“This is Jacques Peretti. Who is he? What drives him? Where did he come from? What issues does he have? etc etc…”

Cut to a row of people on a sofa snoring – ZZZzzzzzzzz.

Jacques Peretti: I don’t have a bloody clue what really happened, but I’ll blag my way around the world pretending I do

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I like Fiona Bruce. Like. Not love, adore, worship, fancy, etc. None of those extreme emotions flow through me, as they clearly do with so many other people, when she pops up on telly. She’s good at what she does and appears genuine, switched on and a bright TV journalist. Yes, she is attractive.

Her star is certainly rising at an astonishing speed at the moment and last night’s puff ‘The Real Alan Sugar’ was clearly a marker for more one-girl shows to come, but for the first time I found myself being quite irritated by her.

I have a feeling that she is starting to love being the star of the show a little too much. Maybe she is starting to believe in all the flattery she gets. I reckon this is a big mistake.

The Sale of the Century parodies were fine, if over-egged, and her faux flirting with Sugar is par for the course with interviewing. But she was wearing a little bit too much lip-gloss and smooching with the camera for my liking. And she was a touch too “native” when it came to nailing her subject. She was too sweet on bitter Sugar.

What did last night’s show add up to? The access Fiona enjoyed was nothing short of spectacular. She got Sugar, his entire family, closest working pals, Gordon Brown and even, for heaven’s sake, Rupert Murdoch. But what did she get? Not one single thing stood out that you hadn’t read in a cuts job on Sugar a hundred times. Fiona didn’t even get a new line worthy of a diary story.

Dearest gorgeous, lovely Fiona, dab off the lippy, tell your producers to spend less time on witty skits starring you and less time on your couture noddies and concentrate on the journalism of the job in hand. Focus on the subject. Get the questions in. Reveal something new to your viewers. Otherwise these big profiles of yours will only ever add up to a spread in a showbiz mag where people just flip through the pictures.

Remain a journalist and don’t become a fawning Luvvie. Don’t fall for it all, girl.

Who is the Real Fiona Bruce?

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I interrupt an extended blogging break to share some sad news I have just received: Bob Warren died yesterday from a short battle with cancer.

Bob was an icon of the News of the World for decades and I held a particular fondness for him because he was most encouraging to me during my earliest days on national newspapers.

I first met Bob when I was a young freelance (21) in 1987. He was the News Editor back then and he kindly tried me out on some shifts. I didn’t mess up and ended up working for him on and off for quite a while.

Bob was probably the most unlikely character you would expect to see steering through some of the nastiest gossip stories in newspaper history. He was mild mannered, gentle, kind and fair. Not the characteristics you automatically associate with a Red Top executive.

In more recent times, I only ever saw Bob at meetings of the Press Golfing Society or the News of the World’s annual golf day. I haven’t got my clubs out for a while, so the last time I saw him was summer 2007.

I heard before Christmas that he was ill and wanted to get in touch, just to pass on my best wishes. For one reason or another, I didn’t get round to it and I am angry now that I didn’t.

The least I can do here is say Thank You to him for the help and guidance in those early days. I hope your swing improves up There, Bob. You were a gentleman among rogues and it was a pleasure to have known you. R.I.P

Bob Warren R.I.P

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As you may have noticed, fatherhood has taken me away from blogging, but it was remiss of me not to at least dash by to record my son’s name (see Daily Mail article below). People have been asking.

In case you were concerned, he has not waited until now – six weeks old – to get his moniker. The Artist and I finally chose one on Day 2. He is called Joseph. Joseph Eliot McGibbon, to be precise, and I finally got around to registering it today – a few days after the deadline. Even at the crucial, final moment, my pen hovered over the form wanting to alter the middle name (or adding “Flintstone” as a last minute gag to give the wife a laugh.)

Now the long search is over, I’m not sure what all the drama was for really. It seems such a simple name. Why was it so tough? But if choosing wasn’t hard enough, we are now faced with an equally difficult, tedious job: getting people to actually call him by his name.

As much as you say your son is called Joseph, people will insist on calling him anything they fancy: Joe, Joey, Jo-Jo, or even – heaven forbid – Sephie.

I spent six months trying to sort this name thing out and all people want to do is change it. Sorry, did I fail you? Maybe I should have just left it blank. At least then you could all call him what you like, while I spend the rest of my days not having to make a decision.

Oh, and what of fatherhood, I hear you ask? Well, it is, erm, yawn, stretch, utterly amaz-zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

He has a Name!

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Well, our baby was born yesterday – 20th October – at 9.42am (and 38 seconds). We have a boy. Both mother and child are doing amazingly well.

All the cliches one has ever heard about being at the birth of your child are true, so I won’t bore you by repeating them here.

So, our wonderful son is nearly a day old and, guess what, he still hasn’t got a name!

The great search continues….

m/f

News flash: About a Boy

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Following the radio gold “interview” with Alan Partridge wannabe Les ‘Hap-Les’ Ross and Hardeep Singh Kohli, I did the decent thing and put in a request to interview Les myself.

I felt that the world needed to know more about this icon of the airwaves and hear his side of his unintentionally hilarious down the line chat that is fast becoming one of the most popular links on Access Interviews.com.

Alas, Les was on air when I called BBC West Midlands yesterday, but I spoke to his programme editor Jeremy Pillock – who was just a tad touchy about the subject.

“Why do you want to interview him? Is it about the Hardeep Singh Kohli thing?”

(Oh, nooo! I just suddenly wondered: Who should I interview today? Brad Pitt? Madonna? No, my life-long dream has always been to interview my hero Hap-Les.)

“Well, yes. It would be good to hear his side. Besides, I reckon Les would be a great interview…” (I mean it. I know there is a story there…)

“No. He will not want to do it.”

“Shall we ask him anyway?”

“No. I am telling you – Les will say No. So this is his answer. No. He is sick of it all…”

Surely he means Sikh of it.

So, there you have it. The great interviewer, with the legendary “shooting all over the place” style, is not talking.

Pity. I quite liked the idea of him hanging up on me.

But there’s a scoop waiting for some demon interviewer. Hit the phones, lads.

Hap-Les says No. He’s Sikh of it.

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I popped along to Sotheby’s yesterday to see the Damien Hirst exhibition – I mean, pre-auction preview. It is well worth the visit. Works such as the spin paintings in “household gloss” don’t do it for me, but I admire Hirst’s showmanship and his courage. And some of the work is spectacular, not least the Golden Calf. I’d never seen his formaldehyde works up close and they are stunning. The sheer volume and projection of the entire exhibition is quite phenomenal. Sotheby’s had to reinforce the ceiling to accommodate the Calf. Its weight has forced me to reconsider buying this piece for my third floor guest bedroom.

By total fluke, Hirst passed by me as I left. With seize-the-moment chutzpah, I introduced myself. I have done a bit of this cold calling over the years and you can quickly get the measure of a celebrity by their reaction. Hirst offered a friendly handshake. He was pleasant and down to earth and looks you in the eye. We chatted for a few minutes. He lives a hundred yards or so from my home. “Do you fancy doing an interview some time?” I asked. “Yeah. Could do. But it would have to be through my office.” This is standard and fare enough. He produced his Blackberry and gave me his PA’s number. “Make sure you tell her we’ve spoken.” He offered me another handshake and was on his way. Decent bloke.

One item in the sale is a painting of a photo taken of Hirst with the head of a corpse during his time at Goldsmith’s art school. My guess is that this would have been around 1982-3. Tracey Emin featured this photo in her room at the RA’s Summer Exhibition. When I saw it there, it bothered me that a photo – albeit such a dramatic one – could be regarded as “art”. But it also made me wonder: Who was that man? What was his life?

When I saw the painting of the photo yesterday, I found myself wondering the same. Clearly, I will ask my new best friend Damien if we meet again, although he won’t know. Maybe someone out there can help me find the story behind The Head with Hirst…

Who’s the Head with Hirst?

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Here’s a piece I wrote for the Daily Mail on 22nd August. I suddenly realised you could read it here, or on the Mail’s website. Although they are pretty similar!


Named and shamed: trendy or fuddy-duddy, your child’s name is a life sentence. No wonder it’s such agony to choose one

How I laughed last week when I read that several names for children had become more or less extinct during the past century. The likes of Walter and Percy, Edna and Olive have all but disappeared.

This tickled me because, as a soon-to-be father for the first time, I have wilfully rejected hundreds of names for being old-fashioned, dull or just plain naff during, ooh, the past fortnight alone.

Such is the ruthless nature of the baby name game. In fact, a good name is so hard to find I’m amazed anyone gets named at all.

I realised that naming our baby would be an experience to remember when my wife, Emma, and I chanced upon a meaty paperback in a second-hand bookshop in the earliest days of the pregnancy. I groaned when I saw the cover: 40,001 Best Baby Names. Surely we had the individualism and imagination not to resort to such crass measures?

But it’s just a starting point, it will give us some ideas, said Emma. Forty thousand and one – a starting point? I nearly passed out.

I accepted the book’s purchase – for a princely £1 – on the condition it was not opened until this baby was definitely happening. I did not want to jinx anything.

Sure enough, the name game began after the 12-week scan, during which I had unwittingly doubled our workload by insisting on us not knowing the sex.

It is the one time in life, I concluded, that you can actively choose to be surprised. Yup, and it will come as no surprise that you also get to spend countless hours searching for a name that will never be used – unless you really want to call your son Amber.

The naming started at a gentle pace with occasional suggestions arising at random moments. A silence during a car journey: ‘What about Myrtle?’ ‘Er, no. Myrtle-the-Turtle. She’ll never live it down.’

Or, out of the darkness during a sleepless night: ‘How about Ernest?’

‘What? Er, no. Hemingway. And Ernie – the Fastest Milkman.’

‘Orson?’ ‘No. Welles. Goodnight.’ Soon, the big book came out, and thinking up names became something of an obsession in our lives. Not an unpleasant one, it has to be said, because we do have fun with it. But it’s fair to say that I have not been participating quite so enthusiastically of late.

The romantic in me wants to stumble upon a name in a cosmic moment – like when I look into my baby’s eyes – and find that it fits (‘Oh, hello – Sharon’).

But I suppose we have to be a bit prepared, so I go with the flow while Emma calls out names. She puts them up and I knock ’em down. I have become the resident Mr Negative.

In fact, I have been amazed to discover what strongly adverse feelings I have towards so many names. Some are like invisible pressure points that release a residue of buried memories.

James – no, he was a nasty snitch at school. Allegra – an ex-girlfriend (although, obviously, I’ve changed that name and of course I didn’t reveal the real reason when it was initially floated).

Entire lists of names are instantly ruled out because they are friends, or the names of their children. Leaving parenthood as late as me, aged 43, you find that great chunks of the Best Baby Names book have already been annexed.

And it is alarming quite what a subtle impact celebrity culture has on your selection, too.

Louis? God no, Louis Walsh. Vincent? Van Gogh – great, although a bit sad, but it’ll get shortened to Vinnie. Vinnie Jones. Enough said.

Jude? Jude Law. Cameron? Diaz, or worse, David. The association list is miserably endless.

Even if you dismiss all the preconceived ideas as hogwash, the baby book also gives the meanings of names, which presents yet another trap. We could probably live with Jude except that it means ‘patron saint of lost causes’. Er, no thanks.

While we were watching television one night, I finally realised I had to up my tempo in this game. Emma was diligently plucking out names from the 40,001 bible like a bingo caller. ‘Claude?’

‘No, too French.’ ‘Xavier?’ ‘Even more French. Non!’ ‘How about Martha? Or Constance – that means loyal?’

‘Hmm. Short-listers, definitely.’ I could watch TV while editing scores of names. I was multi-tasking effortlessly and knew I could get this list down to 200 before delivery day. I do love a deadline.

‘Isaac?’ ‘Er, no. Bit too biblical.’ ‘Job?’ ‘Blimey, no. Same problem.’ Then silence. Phew, the name game was over for another night.

‘Rob – have you got ANY suggestions?’

I paused. ‘Umm. How about – Radiator? I’m sure we’ll warm to it.’ The book hit the floor with a heavy, defeated thud.

Since then, I have been more productive, but we are still alarmingly thin on the ground.

Anyway, what is it we are looking for? We are agreed that we want something that feels original, a bit rare, but not so out there – Apple, for example – that it will make us, or our darling little one, sound a bit daft. And the last thing I want to be is a pretentious Try-Hard.

A name with a worthwhile meaning would be a bonus, but does any of this really matter? These days everyone tries to be a bit different and the moment the pack is onto something, that’s when I instinctively want to go the other way.

The good news is that we might have a name for a girl. It’s a bit old fashioned, a classic, but it might just work. I can’t say what it is or you will all nick it and before long it will appear on one of those Most Popular lists, then we’ll all hate it.

Anyway, it could be utterly pointless because Emma is convinced she is having a boy – and we don’t have one single boy’s name without a line through it.

Hang on, I have just looked at that ever-so shortlist of fuddy-duddy dying names and, you know what, Percy is growing on me. Yeah, that’ll do.

Baby Names Dilemma Article

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The blog is going on holiday, while I toil away on www.accessinterviews.com and other stuff. Do feel free to join me there.

Until I see you again, along the way…

Happy Summer

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The grace, humility and sheer excellence in the face of extreme pressure displayed by Rafael Nadal and Roger Federer was nothing short of awe inspiring.

I watched every minute, fidgeting from the sofa, to my feet, to the floor, anxiously willing Nadal to do it. I had been in pretty much the same state the day before cheering on Laura Robson through dewy eyes.

Ah, the heart-lifting innocence of her victory and the titanic triumph of Nadal’s makes the world seem a better place. Anything suddenly seems possible when you see such personal fortitude in these young, brave people.

But it is the manner in which they both won – and how Federer took defeat – that is the brightest beacon. Such modesty and respect for their competitors – how rare it is see such qualities in our public figures. Arrogant celebrities with wafer thin talents and mendacious, vain political leaders should all have looked on in shame at these tennis stars.

My weekend of loving the world that bit more was rounded off sweetly just as Nadal collected the trophy; “The Inspector” called again with an up-date on my little complaint.

Well after 9pm on a Sunday, this fine gentleman was grafting away for the good of the nation. “Really sorry, but would you mind calling back? I’m just watching Nadal get the cup…?”, I asked. “No, problem at all, sir.” Blimey, what a diamond.

We chatted later and – after I had given him a match report – he informed me that he had discussed the matter with Snell’s superior officer and she had been hauled in, along with her side-kick (Mick Lomax) and they were both carpeted for breaching various regulations and for generally being obnoxious in their duty. (Lomax has “gruff attitude” form, it would seem).

“Would I like to take the matter further?” No, I said. I like to think that these coppers are doing good work in general, so I would not like to wilfully blot their records. A bollocking is enough for me, thanks. “That is very big of you, if I may say so, sir,” he said. Well, there you have it. Case closed.

The tennis proves there is much to celebrate in life, so I am moving on. Very big, I know.

ps: what a picture of misery Gwen Stefani struck in Federer’s private box of supporters. I had the misfortune of trying to interview her a couple of years ago. She was pleasant enough but as dull as you get in my game. Now I see that she is not even moved by the greatest game of tennis, I will no longer berate myself for failing to get anything of interest from her. When we met not even a cattle prod would have woken her from her monosyllabic, jet lagged stupor.

Love All

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Another day, another battle to fight. Yawn.

I wouldn’t want you to think I go looking for trouble, or that I’m some sort of aspiring vigilante, or worse, a dedicated Mr Grump recently regenerated from the Victor Meldrew misery mould, but I’m buggered if I am going to live a life blindly turning the other cheek while the inconsiderate bastards of the world run roughshod over our daily lives.

The Scene: 8.30am this morning, I am getting into the car outside my home. A white van pulls up, a bloke with a blood-burst face in his late 50s steps out, hobbles a few paces then angrily hurls a poly-wrapped magazine in the direction of my front door. It lands in a puddle near the bins. I quickly retrieve it and see that it is my weekly edition of Press Gazette.

I chase after him. “Excuse me, do you reckon that’s the right way to deliver this magazine?”

“Yeah. I’m double parked…it’s a fucking nightmare here, what else am I’m gonna do?”

“So it’s going to sit there all day in the rain, until I get home?”

“Yeah,” he said getting back into the van.

“Er, I know the people who run this mag. The least you could do it put it through the letter box – like you are paid to do. Can I have your name?”

“Nah. Fuck off. I’ve got enough fucking problems…” Cue the screech of an engine and the burst of fumes. An absolute delight to make your acquaintance.

Now, do I forget about it and forgive this poor unhappy chap for the off day he is clearly having? Life really is hard enough, we all know. Or do I shop him to the hard-working, decent owner of the magazine who pays tens of thousands a year to the “courier” company that employs such an oik?

I’m not keen on being a sneak, but I think we all have a duty to help sift out the objectionable, useless grime that pollute the service industry.

One day it’s the police, the next it’s the courier business. I know, I am emerging as something of a Super (Local) Hero. It’s not easy, but someone’s got to do it.

Tomorrow: motorbikes.

Arghhhhhhh!

Catch me if you can

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Following the surge of interest in my ‘interaction’ with an officer of London’s Met Police, I have an up-date and some interesting information for anyone troubled by such issues.

Powered by the energy of thousands of global readers connecting with my trifling strife with woman “officer” Snell (No: TL7449), I cranked up the one man revolution and took it to my local cop shop. The desk sergeant quickly informed me that a complaint against the police can only be dealt with by an Inspector – and the one Inspector for the borough was not available. He was in with the “Chief”. Oh, OK, do get him to call me, thank you. I left not expecting to hear anything too soon.

After a stroll through the sales – Joseph, Conran, Harrods – I headed back, empty-handed, to HQ at the gasworks to continue developing the empire. Then the phone rang out: an Inspector called.

I will not provide his name, but suffice to say that our ensuing 25 minute conversation helped reaffirm my life-long belief that the police are, in the main, good and fair and deserve our support. This chap was open, articulate, understanding and wise.

Inspector X listened to my little tale and agreed whole-heartedly that I had a worthy complaint. It was not piffle, he said, but important for all concerned to get these things right. He was aghast at the conduct of the officer and lambasted her as “arrogant” “not good enough” and “infantile”. “This is not the way we should be treating people and is not of the high standards that we expect” he added.

More importantly Insp X outlined a few facts that you all might find worth knowing:

1. It is most definitely NOT against the law to take a photo of a policeman in the UK. “We should carry on our duty irrespective of how many cameras flash away.”

2. There is no law to say that you MUST give a policeman your name and address if they stop you. It is only required if you are suspected of an offence.

3. He revealed that the “Stop and Account” forms are likely to be scrapped in the coming months because they are unpopular with the police and proving counter productive in terms of public relations. Yep, they sure are.

4. Snell is not – as she claimed to me – a fully loaded police woman. Although full time, she is in fact a Community Support Officer (The number “7” in front of an officer’s lapel code denotes this).

5. Most interestingly, Snell acted improperly by demanding to look through my phone files. This constitutes a “Search” and in her Support Officer capacity she does NOT hold the power to do this without instruction and observation by a PC. At the time of looking at my phone, her colleague (a proper copper) was busy “busting” the cyclist.

OK, so where does all this lead? Well, Inspector X was happy to relay an official complaint to the West End police where Snell is based, which would ultimately lead to her getting bollocked. Or, he suggested he personally haul her in and do it himself. “I could get her in, no problem, and shout at her, then let you know how it goes,” he said. Oh, how civilised. “It might be that this is one of a number of complaints and might be the hair that breaks the camel’s back…”

Well, there you have it. The obnoxious, officious, small-minded Snell is in the doo-da. The police, G’awd bless ’em, are on to her. They are there to fight for us I’m sure, even if it doesn’t always feel like it.

I will report back. The ‘Not Guilty One of Oxford Street’ is nearly free.

An Inspector Calls

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Thought for today: anyone but Murray.

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My recent ‘interaction’ with a particularly small-minded and supercilious officer (WPC Snell) in the Met’s bicycle regiment has caused quite a spin on the internet. Since it was picked up by a kindly reader called “Chakalakasp” and linked on Reddit, the traffic to this blog has rocketed beyond all recognition.

It is clear that matters of police over-reaction and the wilful shattering of our civil liberties causes consternation around the globe. It is now a month since the incident and I regretfully confess that I have been slow to make an official complaint. Time assuages the injustice, as does indeed the attrition of getting on with life; basically, my time has been consumed by single-handedly running Access Interviews.com, trying – and failing – to move home in a collapsing British housing market, and dealing with the joys – and worries – of imminent fatherhood. My desire to take on the police and government has withered.

But I should be ashamed of my inaction. Trifling matters such as making a little life and a living are no excuses to delay the revolution. Certainly, the issues I raised in that blog are important and no revolution was won by basically lumping it and soldiering on.

The actions of police like Snell are the splinter at the thin end of a very nasty, giant wedge that will adversely affect our lives for generations. Hence, I will head to my local cop station tonight, bolstered by those thousands of readers, to lodge my complaint. I shall report back. Onwards into battle…!

To Snell and Back

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Hurrah for David Davis. As regular readers of this blog will know, I have been seething about the abuse of our civil liberties for ages.

The insidious poisoning of our basic freedom with the virus of CCTV cameras, largely installed under the false premise as an antidote to crime, is at the forefront of my anger. We have all rolled over and allowed it to happen. I can think of no other European country that would have been so pliant.

Now, at last, someone has taken a stand and Davis should be applauded. The swathe of support he is already enjoying is at last the voice of the great silent majority exercising weary vocal chords that have been muted for too long.

Let Davis speak. And prepare to hear the loudest echo imaginable across the country.

Go, Davis, Go.

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Congratulations to Barack Obama, a worthy winner of the Democrat nomination in the US presidential election – which he will lose to the man with the G-force face (botox, or tuck?).

Obama is a gust of much-needed fresh air in a country gasping for life beneath the bloodied stench created by Bush. He’d get my vote.

Every newspaper and media organisation around the world today proclaim Obama as “the first black presidential nominee”. Have I missed something? Or am I colour blind?

Obama’s dad is black. His mum is white. He is mixed race, or whatever other politically correct term you prefer to use – except, of course, that shocking pre-1990s gaff “half caste”.

So, rock star Obama is as much white as he is black, yet the world is in thrall of his black 50%, while ignoring his white heritage. Imagine if it was the other way round. I suspect there would be hell to pay. And would the world’s media rejoice in the same way if, say, a white looking politician – of an even 50-50 mixed background – suddenly ascended to rule an African country? I doubt it.

So, isn’t this all a bit of medium-rare inverted racism? Or am I only thinking this cuz I’m white?

It makes no odds anyway: a bloke like me – a “whitey” as Obama’s wife likes to call us on the sly – can’t play the race card. To the world and its media, racism is only ever dealt one way. And it ain’t to white people, innit.

Obama has always deftly avoided the race issue, but maybe he should take a leaf out of Tiger Woods’s book. When the media was reaching for the cliche tin and trying to label him the first black golfing legend, he flicked it back with a swoop of his driver and intellect. He said he is not in fact black, but is proud to be mixed race: part black, part Thai, plus a watered down percentage of other races from his bloodline. In fact, Woods revealed to Oprah Winfrey that he had his own classification – “Cablinasian”, as in Caucasian-black-Indian-Asian. A stroke of stunning and admirable individuality.

I’ll come back to you when I have thought of a name that might suit the politically correct world of Barack Obama.


Ps: Just a thought – if Obama becomes President, will he make his mark and decorate his new home…so he can live in the Black House? Relax, it’s a joke. Call it a bit of black humour.

Is it cuz I’m white?

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I bet Daniel Moylan, the pin-stripe suited deputy leader of Kensington & Chelsea council, could hardly believe the media coverage he got for his little idea about letting cyclists go the wrong way up a one way street. He is testing a handful of streets, yet it makes the news on everything from the Today programme to acres of newsprint in the nationals.

A great idea? Of course not. Just wait until the first kid is killed in a head-on collision during the dark of winter and the police prepare to lock up the distraught driver for causing death by reckless driving…because – wait for it – he was driving the right way up a one way street.

There’s only one way for this idea to go: right down the pan.

One way idea

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There has been much talk – and criticism – in the media and beyond about the redesign of The Times. I have had a few days to chew it over and I’m afraid, like others, I think it is a dog’s dinner and a disaster.

I could go through various aspects bit by bit, but it is simpler to look no further than Times2, the focus of my principal grumble: all that white space and headlines in italics make it look like a stinking pile of vacuous advertorial features. What a way to project some fine journlaistic work.

As for all those new colour picture bylines throughout the paper; they may well have dragged some hacks into the modern age from the safety of flattering black and white, but unfortunatley it has revealed many (no names) to be tubbier and, ahem, a little ruddier in the face.

Turn back Times, too

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Wow, if ever you needed a laugh, check out the rambling, repetitive and confused piece by the “retired” Julie Burchill in The Sun today defending Big Brother. It runs to an unbelievably bloated 1,301 words. Talk about play to the crowd. Why on earth is this nonsensical, cliched tripe a centre spread in the Currant?

Burchill – who declares that she is “old and rich” in the article – rails against people who do not like Big Brother. She writes: “…hating Big Brother says far more about the hater than it does about the hated. BB-haters, in no particular order, hate the young. They hate the working-class. They hate gays and trannies. They hate people who have sex more than once a fortnight. And as with a lot of unfounded, ungrounded hate, envy is in there somewhere…”

Well, I hate Big Brother because it is boring, crap TV. Simple as. And I hate that article for the same reasons. It should have been five pars max – in the Brighton Evening Argus letters page – not the marquee spread in The Sun.

Big Boring Burchill

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“Middle Classes Losing Faith In Police” screams the Daily Mail today amidst the coverage about the dissatisfaction law abiding people now feel with the police. There were a record number of complaints made in 2006-7: 29,637. Well, please add me to next year’s total after I was stopped and ordered to account for my actions recently. My crime: using my mobile phone in a manner likely to take a photo. I kid you not.

I was idly standing on Oxford Street contemplating an hour’s walk home rather than the fetid Tube when two officers on bicycles stopped a push-bike courier right in front of me. One officer (No: TL626) was unnecessarily obnoxious, which got the courier’s back up, so I decided to ear-wig, as you do.

I watched this vignette unfold and considered taking a photo on my phone, you know, for the hell of it, as you do. I pointed the lens, then decided not to bother. In a blink, the other officer came over and accused me of taking a photo. This, I would find out, was PC Snell (No: TL7449), a petite woman of about 25 with short black hair beneath her cycling helmet. What she lacked in height, she made up for in officious bloody-mindedness.

I showed her my phone. She was excited because she owned the same model and instructed me through the image files. Nothing there. Ha! Unlucky, Super Cop. That should have been the end of it. Dixon of Dock Green would have laughed lightly at the misunderstanding and waved me on my way. Not so with Snell. She insisted on taking my details and filing a “Stop and Searches” form. It beggared belief.

I suddenly found myself in possession of a lethal weapon: fully-loaded sarcasm. I made her work for every sorry answer. At one point she said: “You know, we can do this interview somewhere else”. It was a direct lift from The Sweeney, or Morse. Possibly Trumpton. She was threatening to take me down to the station for holding a mobile phone. Er, you might have to arrest about 50 million others. Besides, what was she going to do, throw me over her cross bar and pedal me to Paddington Green?

Snell’s hands were trembling as she filled out the form. Clearly a big “collar”. Her shaking, spidery scrawl revealed: “Male was standing outside Sainsbury (sic). He appeared to be using his mobile phone and pointing it in (sic) myself TL7449 and TL626…”. I picked her up on her grammar (“We was doing…”) and punctuation when she omitted the apostrophe in Sainsbury’s. “I didn’t get A-level English,” she revealed. “No shame in that, but surely you can copy words?” It was in foot-high letters 10 yards away.

It went on. She asked for ID. I gave her a bank card. Done with the courier, Snell’s wingman TL626 came over to assist. He radioed HQ to get a match on my name after I refused to give my address. Exasperated, I gave them my date of birth. Looking at my Lloyds Card, PC Snell continued to bust me.

“So, Robin…”.

“Well, it’s Rob to my friends,” I said cheerily.

The other copper mis-heard and butted in. From behind wrap-around mirror sun glasses, he snapped: “Ah. You are saying that this card is your ‘friend’s’?” He suddenly got a buzz thinking he had chanced upon a big time credit card thief impersonating as another. Then he began questioning me. Give me strength.

And so it continued. To think, a week or so earlier a young man had been stabbed to death at 5pm outside McDonald’s a few hundred yards away. I bet these two cycling plods would have been indispensable on such a day with their pencils and laser criminal antennae. They would have probably alighted at the bloody scene and started handcuffing people for over-salting their French fries.

At one point, as we argued over my “actions”, little Snell pointed to the sky: “You know we can trace what happened through the CCTV.” Where the hell do they get these people?

The police watch over us day and night through four million cameras, slowly destroying the trust and respect of millions of law abiding people, and then they have the audacity to get all shirty if you – allegedly – point a camera phone at them and do NOT take a photo.

They wonder why we complain. Before I had written this piece, I had decided not to file a complaint. I feel too bored and beaten by Big Brother Britain to be bothered, but now I have had second thoughts. Tactless, negative, spiteful officers like PC Snell need to be brought to book, or things will never change.

I have since found out that it is not against the law to take a photo of a copper going about his or her duty. So, from now on, I will be snapping them, not nicking us.

POLICE. NO CAMERA. OVER-REACTION

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And, so, to Fountain Studios in Wembley for a seat behind the judges at a live semi-final of Britain’s Got Talent. What an extraordinary experience.

I have dipped into the series since a night of undiluted hilarity at the auditions in Hackney, so the thought of some more live action was an easy lure.

A glass of pink champagne backstage got me in the mood for Simon, Piers and Amanda, and, boy, do you need some happy fuel to attend these shows; the crew get you clapping and on your feet constantly like demented performing seals to generate the feel-good vibe. It is an exhausting two hours which leaves you with raw hands and arthritic knees. But it is worth the effort.

Love it or hate it, BGT is one weird whirl of high purity entertainment – good and bad. It makes you cringe, laugh, cheer, boo and cry all in one fatal dose. You sink at the sight of some of the acts – the clueless Indian magician, that troop of a hundred hopeless dancers, the bin bashers, and Christine Hamilton going for it in the finale of You Raise Me Up. But then you are up-lifted by the endearing, untarnished talent of the chorister – you know, the boy with bad white heads. His Tears In Heaven made me water a bit.

You can’t help but get caught up in it all when you are there. When the agonising moment came for Cowell to cast the deciding vote between Flava and The Cheeky Monkeys, I found myself shouting out loud.

My head knew it should be Flava – the half-baked dance act with “street” kids who want to make something of themselves – but my heart wanted the two cute little blonde kids who, let’s be honest, are too bloody young to be appearing in an event of this scale. Their act makes me feel a bit uncomfortable. In fact, so uncomfortable, that I shouted out their name to help Cowell decide. I was so near to him that I seriously think my shout – and a few others – helped swing it. I was like a parent at a pantomime who had sunk one too many sweet sherries in the interval. Really, I should be ashamed of myself.

Britain’s Got Semi-Talent

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I kicked off the “Season” yesterday with a fine day at Chelsea Flower Show, as you do. I know for sure that the years are catching me up when my enjoyment of this event grows with each passing year. It can’t be long before I am a crashing gardening bore, although I haven’t even got a garden yet; they cost about £200,000 where I live with barely room for a wafer-thin border.

The Chelsea Flower Show is a slow, subtle hoot. It is all so quaint and antiquated and ever so, ever so white. It is like stepping back in time when everything was so much safer and quiet. It must be the only public event left that you can go to without being scanned or frisked.

Highlight for me this year was the hornbeam trees in the Best In Show Laurent Perrier garden designed by Tom Stuart-Smith. I want some hornbeams now. I saw a bonsai hornbeam in the Pavillion so maybe that is the answer. I also want a tank of that pink bubbly his sponsors were splashing around after Tom won. Yes, a glass of pink under my very own miniature hornbeam in my micro garden, that’ll do.

I had a fleeting chat with the maestro himself – Alan Titchmarsh. It is hilarious watching the older ladies fiddling with their digital cameras with tembling, liver-spotted hands whenever he is near. He really is a heartthrob.

One minor revelation was finding out why dear, dear Alan is so faultlessly fluent on those seemingly ad-libbed links from those little gardens: he has a mini autocue slotted onto the camera.

Season greetings

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And so, to the second day of the First Test against New Zealand at Lord’s for a happy reminder of one indisputable, joyous fact: a cricket ground is the only place where a man can open a bottle of red wine, sup a pint of beer, or pop a champagne cork at 11am in public and not be accused of being an alcoholic.

It is also the only place that a younger man can visit and be assured of seeing for certain what his future looks like if he continues on his ruinous path of grape ‘n’ grain. It looks like bloated bellies, thinning hair, burst cheek blood vessels and port noses. Not a pretty sight, but that’s cricket for you: it’s one of life’s truly humbling levellers.

The alcohol Test

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Just a note to let you know that my filmed interview with Will Self is now on the Access Interviews website.

Rarely does a subject make me laugh as much as Will. His tone and delivery on the slightest of subjects cracks me up, as you will see on the film. He is also wonderfully articulate and many of his answers on a scope of topics are quite mesmerising. However frothy, I particularly enjoyed the Q&A section and his answer to “What piece of wisdom would you pass on to a child?” is particularly insightful and poignant. Will also talks candidly about his drugs past, his writing life, and the woes of being labelled a “grumpy old man”.

Oh, and all luvvieness aside, I can sincerely recommend his new novel, ‘The Butt’. Eloquent, highly original, dark, witty, fascinating, and quite a page turner. It is, ah, bloody brilliant, yeah. And it could make a great film. Will’s wish is for Ed Norton to play both of the main characters. David Lynch to direct?

Will Self – the interview

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Much coverage today in the media generally about the blatant extortion racket Councils run in the guise of parking enforcement. This very subject has been a keen area of focus for me recently. In fact, I even flexed my first Freedom of Information muscle last month by requesting the stats of my local council’s windfall in this disgusting past time. (BTW, I wholly recommend the FOI service. Most efficient and, as it says on the tin, it’s free) The figures were emailed to me earlier this week.

In the financial year 2006-2007, the Royal Borough of Kensington and Chelsea masterly carried out the following: Parking Tickets: 279,324; Clamps: 14,213; Tows: 8,752. Revenue generated: Parking Tickets: £13,208,694. Clamps/Tows: 2,383,754.

Obvious question: Where the hell did all that money go?

There is a car pound at the end of my street. I have been known to go down there and pay my local gangsters £260 for carrying my car 250 yards. Racketeering, it’s a nasty business and our elected officials should be brought to account. Bring on the revolution. End this corruption.

It’s all a Fix penalty

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Apologies for continuing to bang the AI drum, but here is a piece I wrote for the current edition of Press Gazette as a follow up to the sponsorship of Interviewer of the Year at the BPA by Access Interviews.

And here is a piece for The Independent last month about the continuing importance of the ‘interview’ to the promotion of all genres of modern media.

All this is part of my on-going mission to spread the good word about the website.

Some plugs for A.I

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I note – with no real sense of sympathy – that John Prescott has revealed he was bulimic. This comes a few weeks after the release of details of MP’s expenses showed that he munched through a gut-busting £4,000 of groceries in one year.

So, in summary, Prescott threw (up) tax payers’ money quite literally down the toilet.

Hmmm, shame. If only the Government had known at the time, it could have cut out the bloated middle man altogether and simply thrown a pile of cash down a sewer.

Prescott’s money sewer

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Daft really, to reach out like this, but I have just tuned into one of my favourite events on the sporting calendar – the Masters golf from Augusta – and I am irate enough to react with an angry blog. I had forgotten who is the host these days. Gary bloody Lineker.

Quite simply, he does NOT fit this event.

I felt it in my gut last year. I even reached for the blog back then. There has been much press about Midlands accents of late. Well, I for one don’t want one talking me through this golf tournament. Every time he says “Masstas” I want to club him. I can’t be alone.

Thankfully, I will be on holiday tomorrow and will miss the Masters this year. The only consolation is that I won’t have to watch Lineker at the helm.

Steve Rider get yer bouffant back ‘ere.

Lineker is no Master

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I nearly just choked on my morning pastry a moment ago after reading Norman Tebbit’s intro’ in his article for today’s Daily Mail about Spitting Image. He says, most proudly – to no doubt show us that he has a sense of humour and is one of the lads who can take a wind up – that he liked his puppet. Yeah, rght.

Those of you with the girth and grey hairs of age will recall that he was portrayed most unfavourably as a dark-eyed, brutal henchman – Thatcher’s heartless enforcer.

I appreciate that this is not a matter of State importance, but I am highly irritated by Tebbit’s assertion and hereby accuse my Lord of telling a big fat porky. But how do I know?

My first celebrity interview was with Jeffrey Archer in 1986 when I was a reporter on the Wimbledon News. Our conversation turned to Spitting Image and he said firmly: “I can tell you – but this must be off the record – that one person who is most hurt by his puppet is Norman Tebbit. He doesn’t like it at all.”

Being a wide-eyed beginner I was quite emboldened by the fact that Archer had trusted me with something (at the time) so potentially newsworthy, albeit off the record. I faithfully guarded it for 20 odd years (as if it was worth it, eh).

Despite the fact that dear Jeffrey went on to become something of a world class fibber himself, I have no reason to doubt his account. Hence, this needs to be said: Norman Tebbit hated his puppet and it is no laughing matter that he should pretend otherwise in a family newspaper for filthy lucre.

These politicians, eh, they simply can’t break a habit of a lifetime.

Tebbit, you’re havin’ a laugh

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Just a quick note to announce some developments with Access Interviews.com. I am delighted to announce that the website will be sponsoring the ‘Interviewer of the Year’ category at the prestigious ‘British Press Awards’. The event takes place at the Grosvenor House Hotel on 8th April with Channel 4’s Jon Snow presenting.

Also – we have just loaded up my interview with Jeffrey Archer to the site.

A.I sponsors top Press Award

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The “world” exclusive interview with Piers Morgan.

Scene: An exhausted Piers Morgan calls from his suite at The London Hotel, New York. He sounds punchy with fatigue from the glory of his triumph as Donald Trump’s Celebrity Apprentice. Rob McGibbon, in his London office, listens intently as this stunning exclusive unfolds across the Atlantic…

(We exchange gushing showbizzy nothings of mutual appreciation and congratulations, then we begin…)

RM: Piers Morgan, welcome to the first telephone interview for AccessInterviews.com. How does it feel to be the U.S Celebrity Apprentice? Did you think you would win?

PM: Well, I have to admit, it feels pretty good. I actually feel very proud. To be honest, I thought I had blown it. Even though I had won in terms of money raised, there was a real ground swell in the room for this all-American heroic cowboy, while I was being billed as this evil, obnoxious arrogant Brit. I thought Trump would go for the American hero thing because this is what America needs right now – a good guy with great integrity to win, but at the very last moment he swivelled round and fired him. It was amazing.

RM: What was the freeze-frame moment of the night for you?

PM: Erm, the most powerful moment was when the injured American soldiers came into the studio in their wheelchairs. I had raised $750,000 for the Intrepid Fallen Heroes Fund and I had met them before. When the audience saw them they spontaneously jumped to their feet to give them a standing ovation. That sent a shiver up my spine. The atmosphere changed in that moment and it kind of brought home what the show was really about. This was not about who is the nicest bloke, but who in the end did the best job for their charity. And that was me. These soldiers were very grateful for what I had done and I think that actually carried a lot of weight with Trump.

I also remember the moment when things were going quite badly for me and I turned to see my mother and sister sitting in the front row looking like it was all over and trying to give me a thumbs up. It is a long way to come to watch your son and brother to lose to a cowboy. I said, quite loudly, It ain’t over ‘til the fat lady sings.

RM: How seriously did you take winning? Surely this is just a daft game show and just another vain step in your pursuit of fame?

PM: I have taken it very seriously. You know me, I don’t even play tiddlywinks to lose. I have spent my entire life trying to win every competitive thing I have ever taken part in. All the other celebrities who got fired along the way made pompous speeches about only entering it to raise money for charity. I don’t buy that argument. I think it is insincere and misleads the public. I am honest enough to admit that, Yes I wanted to raise money for charity, but I also entered the show to raise my profile and to win. At least I am not a hypocrite about it.

But the charitable aspect really did hit home to me when I went down to meet the wounded soldiers. That is when I realised that raising $750,000 for them is a big deal. Yes, in many ways, the show is a trivial and frivolous game that doesn’t matter, but when you see what a difference that money will make, it makes me feel very proud.

(We talk in length about the public reaction over there. “Streams of people” have been wishing him well. Simon Cowell has texted saying “Congratulations – from Dr Frankenstein”; Gordon Brown’s wife Sarah has been in touch (Gordon is, apparently, working out the appropriate Government response from the fountain nib of the Establishment – “My victory is being discussed at Cabinet level.”), as has Alan Sugar and a soufflé of other lesser known names. It is luvviness in extremis. Then we talk about the reaction from back home…)

RM: Hmm, your old friends on certain newspapers have been quite unkind about your win. Does that make you happy or sad? Any old foes come to your mind at happy times like this?

PM: I am delighted they are enjoying my success so whole-heartedly. They are embracing my triumph with the warmth and admiration that I would expect. I hope they are all enjoying themselves in their rather meagre ivory towers in the east of London, as I sit here in my glorious space in New York.

There are a number of people who I think will be particularly irritated by what has happened. My message to Jeremy Clarkson is: if you keep working, there is a chance that one day you will crack America, you just have to keep at it…dreams do come true.

(The conversation drifts to fame and America’s Got Talent. Piers will celebrate his birthday in LA on Sunday over dinner with Simon and friends at Robert de Niro’s restaurant. I will have to save all the other fascinating outtakes of our chat for my book. It is time to close and go to the pub.)

RM: One of the more startling revelations of your time in the Apprentice was that you were outed as being gay…

PM: Ahem. Maybe I can take the opportunity of this interview to point out that I am in fact NOT a homosexual. I simply kissed a cowboy as a joke after various people decided to “out” me. I have nothing against homosexuals, but I just don’t happen to be one…

RM: But, surely, after such an amazing victory you are gay, in the 19th century translation of the word…

PM. Oh, yes, of course. I am extremely gay at this moment. In fact, I have never felt more gay than I do today.

(I always thought as much)

PM Questions – and Answers

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Steady yourselves now, folks … I have just had a call from Piers’ people’s people and I am reliably informed he will be patched through to me and Access Interviews just as soon as he has had some high-fat hash browns to soak up the acidity of all the Krug champagne…

The Apprentice is on his way

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Er, please steady yourselves as I announce the following:

Media legend Piers Morgan has just called to say that he will give his first interview since winning The Celebrity Apprentice in America here, on this blog for AccessInterviews.com

This will happen, just as soon as he wakes up in New York, in his luxury suite, surrounded by nubile women, even richer and more famous than he was yesterday to begin what will probably be one of the maddest days of his mad life… so far…

Until then, see his big moment here:
I’ll keep you posted…

m/f

Piers Morgan . . . World Exclusive Interview!

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FLASH: 5am. London. I finally decide to get up after a sleepless night. I have been restless, deeply troubled. It is as if I know all is not well with the world. I am right.

I go downstairs and see a blue light flashing. My mobile. A text. “I won…”.

The “I” is Piers Morgan. The “won” is The Celebrity Apprentice in America.

Unbloodybelievable.

I text back and then the call comes . . .

m/f!

Piers Morgan wins …

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I do not often gasp out loud in horror when I read a story on a website, but I have done just that after reading about the sudden death of film director Anthony Minghella. I am totally shocked and feel deeply saddened.

I did not know Minghella at all and never interviewed him, but I attended a talk he gave about his work at the London Book Fair in March 2004. I met him fleetingly afterwards as he did a signing session for the screenplay of Cold Mountain. A rare “fan” moment for me, but I had a such respect for his craft and talent.

For fun, I also asked him to sign the synopsis of a book I was trying to get published at the time. He asked me about it and we spoke for a few moments. (Deep, deep down, in a fantastical way, I guess I wanted him to eventually make the film of the book). He chuckled warmly as he signed the synopsis and said, with a big, big smile: “Does this mean I have blessed it?” I wrote about this encounter later.

He struck me as a sincere, gentle, modest and supremely gifted man. What a loss.

Anthony Minghella RIP

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Just a quick note to let you know about a piece in The Independent today about Access Interviews. Check it out!

Indy focus on A.I

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It has taken a while, due to the enormity of running my amazing life, but the re-jig of the Access Interviews.com homepage and, more importantly, the Felix Dennis filmed interview finally went live yesterday. Oh the toil of running a major website.

I had anticipated getting a long and detailed interview with Felix. He is fantastic company and our last interview, at his home in the Cotswolds in the summer of 2006, went on for over four hours. I couldn’t shut him up, so I was expecting an all-embracing interview on camera this time.

Alas, no amount of preparation can account for the unexpected in this game. Felix was delayed by a long lunch – an hour and a chuffing half – and then needed to leave sharpish for a board meeting. To be honest, when showbiz flakes keep me waiting like that I throw an internal hissy fit. I sit on hands, bite my tongue, that sort of thing, while secretly wanting to tell them to stick it and naff off. But you have to bury a lot of impotent rage in this interviewing game. Well, if something has taken months to set up, you don’t want to throw it away in a fit of pique and come away with nothing. Gulp and swallow that pride like it’s a lump of MDF with nails in. I say, get your own back by sticking it to them with a few blunt questions instead.

Oddly enough, I didn’t get irritated waiting for Felix. He doesn’t really give a flying toss about anything, so I didn’t take it personally. And I like him a lot. He is a totally fascinating maverick. Besides, I was quite happy thumbing through his wonderful – and highly valuable – collection of first editions. How much is an immaculate first/first of ‘To Kill A Mocking Bird’ these days?

Anyway, the Felix interview has already been watched by a few early adopters on the media blog circuit. First prize goes to the mischievous Madame Arcati for picking up on the irreverent insert in the Q&A section. Well, wouldn’t you have Linda at your fantasy dinner party?

There are some good interviews for the ‘Rob McGibbon Meets’ section in the pipeline, so do stay tuned.

Best

When Felix Dennis met Linda Lovelace . . .

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Merveilleux to see Marion Cotillard deservedly pick up the Oscar for her mesmerising, moving performance as Edith Piaf in La Vie En Rose. I watched this film on DVD a month ago and was so was blown away by her depiction that I watched the powerful ending several times.

Marion made a vaguely endearing acceptance speech at the Oscars, which follows her Bafta win. Last night, she even thanked the Angels of Los Angeles (she’s cleary new to that souless, mendacious city) that have now made her a star.

It seems such a shame that Marion could not see fit to even mention in passing – in either speech – the one angel who made it all possible: the tragic, gifted Edith Piaf.

Marion should be ashamed of herself and regret this appalling oversight.

Marion should regrette that Oscar speech

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Just in case this is of interest and easier for you, Access Interviews has gone all YouTube. I know, band wagons are a bore, especially if you are grabbing on well after the event, but such is life.

Access Interviews plugs into YouTube

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It is not often that I wake up chuckling into the pillow through a throat made sore by a night of intense, stomach crunching laughter. It is also not often that I burn the toast because my mind is happily distracted by turning over the events of the previous evening. But, then, I had never been to see the auditions for ITV’s ‘Britain’s Got Talent’.

Last night, The Artist and I and a friend sat riveted and contorted through what was probably the funniest, most entertaining – and often excruciating – three hours I have had in, erm, a few decades. We ventured to the Hackney Empire under the invitation of Piers Morgan, an old friend who is now, bizzarely, a bona fide TV star on both sides of the Atlantic.

I must be one of the few people in the land not to have seen one minute of BGT. I was abroad throughout its UK arrival last summer, so I came to it cold last night. And what a delightful, emotionally oscillating shock.

Unfortunately, the poor acoustics meant we could hardly hear Morgan or Amanda Holden’s comments (maybe was a blessing), but Cowell was just a few feet away and he delivered some gems.

We sat through talking and counting (and crapping) parrots, hopeless magicians, tragic clowns (Cowell: “I am allergic to clowns”), overweight teenage Irish dancers in plastic tiaras and frizz wigs, and a fat mum in a vest dancing like Britney Spears who pitched for the sympathy vote with, “I’m doing this for my kids… one of them is disabled”.

Then there was the toe curling embarrassment of “Gunther the Geordie Porn Star” in leopard print briefs practising his pelvic action; Julie, a 41-year-old Southampton Council worker, singing Madonna’s Holiday in overly tight glittered Lycra (Cowell: “You’re like a drunk on a hen night”); and a Norwegian cleaner living in the UK “for time being” (he’s been he eight YEARS) who mimed the effects of being in a storm with a red umbrella.

There were very few genuine acts of talent on what proved to be one of the most fruitless auditions in six weeks of trawling the UK. And Hackney provided the most hostile and cynical of audiences seen by the BGT crew to date. Much has been made in the news recently of the dangers of walking Hackney’s streets at night. Well, I can assure you that its foul-mouthed youth are not to be recommended as companions in the theatre either.

A trainee lawyer dancing like Michael Jackson stole the show and easily made it through to the next round, but I won’t give away the comic brilliance of his act.

I chatted to Cowell and Morgan backstage afterwards. Both looked a touch exhausted and exasperated with the draining demands of the BGT auditions juggernaut. Cowell said that he was running out of things to say to these people, but I beg to differ. The line of the night was all his and it was this one which had me chuckling again in today’s reverie.

It came when a man of 84 called William humbly took to the stage to play Edelweiss on the harmonica. He quietly, but proudly, said he had been playing for 60 years. He then proceeded to silence the baying Empire mob with the dullest, most pedestrian performance in history. There was a very real stench of sympathy and awkwardness. 60 years, for that?

With profound and deadening understatement Cowell looked at him unsmilingly and said: “I think you could do with a little bit more practice.”

Priceless.

Britain’s Got Talent has got talent

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You may dismiss this as sad Schadenfreude, but I admit to being more than a little pleased that David Beckham was not selected for the England friendly against Switzerland, thereby denying the golden one his 100th cap.

Now, I like Beckham, in that distant, respectful way. I admire his talent and he seems genuinely devoted to England (or more likely his own legacy.) I “met” him once after his first game for Real Madrid in Majorca in 2003. We chatted for a few micro super-celebrity moments in the players’ area and I got his autograph (for some young relatives – HONEST!) He seems a decent bloke. He’s always on the phone, seeing how I am. That brief meeting clearly had a big impact on him.

For the most part, Beckham carries his extraordinary fame admirably. However, all his hype and self-promotion makes me want to really bloody dislike him. Whether it is his balls all padded up by Armani, or him playing keepy-uppy in ‘urban’ shorts in the Brazilian surf, or schmoozing among other celebrities. This is when I see a narcissistic, avaricious, spoilt brat who gets everything single damn thing he wants. Which is why, when he doesn’t get what he purports to be the most important thing to him, it seems only right. A little bit of 24 carat just desserts. A big bad brick dropped in his golden vanity pool.

When you look at Beckham’s global itinerary in recent months and playing time, you also realise that Fabio Capello has made the right decision. Beckham’s mind and body is elsewhere, so good riddance. Capello suddenly soared in my estimation for having the gumption to dismiss all the daft clamour to include Beckham for absurd sentimental reasons.

Beckham has several decades ahead of him to make billions, but he has only a brief window of time if he genuinely wants to achieve a worthwhile England playing legacy. What price would he put on that? If you ask me, I don’t think, deep down, he is really that bothered, otherwise he would put the breaks on Brand Beckham immediately and dump it on the bench.

In a way – and it seems pathetically spiteful to say this out loud – but I hope he NEVER gets his 100th cap because it will always serve as a metaphor for the choices he made.

Bye, bye, Beckham. For now . . .

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I got quite shock this morning when the name came on the radio news: “David Martin” had been murdered. I had not heard that name for 21 years but it took me back in time in a micro second. The memory is amazing, isn’t it? I often struggle to work out what I did last week, but I had no problem recalling the name of someone I never knew from July 1986.

David Martin was murdered by a baying mob in Mitcham, South London, last Sunday after a row with neighbours. The reason his name was stored in my mind is that I was a cub reporter on the Wimbledon News who was sent to the scene when David’s father Raymond was murdered in almost identical circumstances all those years ago.

Back then, David – 18 – had been attacked by a gang of lads. He bumped into his dad on the way home who then confronted the gang after seeing his son’s bloodied nose. David saw his dad clubbed to death in the street with metal poles and heavy sticks.

I have two scrap books of cuttings from my first year on the Wimbledon News. When I got into the office this morning, I easily found my front page report of that horrific killing. (No byline because the editor, Andrew Palmer, was mean like that). It was particularly strange reading the story again, knowing the ultimate tragic fate in store for the boy David who saw his father murdered.

The Sun newspaper feature today’s story with a newly designed motif – “Broken Britain” – to reflect its coverage of the escalating violence on our streets. Maybe Britain has always been a bit broken …

Some things never change . . .

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Well, today is AI-Day. My website Access Interviews officially launches.

I admit to feeling a little frantic and nervous now that it is out there. Insomnia has become a sudden feature in my previously tranquil life. There is just so much to think about.

And who knows how AI will do. Soar or sink. We will find out in the coming months. We have already had respectful traffic during the previous testing weeks. It is amazing how these things spread. I even have fans in France for my McNab interview. Mon dieu!

You know, it’s a strange experience, launching what is essentially a global platform from my humble empire HQ and mind. Access Interviews is, in many ways, a world-wide magazine with many fantastic dimensions – even if I say so myself. A few years back, something like this would have cost millions and taken a huge team. But I have managed it with a handful of dedicated techies and a belly load of expensive belief.

So, yes, I am as apprehensive as any actor on a first night. But to get it all into proportion, I have done what every right thinking person should do in times of concern about your mortal position: I have put on Beethoven’s 3rd at full blast.

That knocks any worries into perspective.

Wish me luck.

AccessInterviews.com has lift off

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Hello and Happy New Year to you all. May 2008 bring you everything you wish for.

With the niceties out the way, on with business. If you are not a computer, a search engine bot or a super tech spider from planet internet, then there is no need to continue reading. This post is purely for machines to digitally promote my new website – www.accessinterviews.com.

You see, my tech team tell me that if I blog about Access Interviews, then the spiders from Mars will get all excited and bump up my Google ranking. It is already incredibly high – No.3 – but we are reaching for the top spot, so here goes.

Access Interviews is a brilliant new website created by me with the young geniuses at Mettic Web Development. The site is dedicated to collating the world’s interviews. On this site you will be able to load links to interviews you have written, or simply ones you like, or you can just search for interviews that grab your interest.

Also on Access Interviews (are you paying attention Mr Spider and Miss Bot?) you will also find superb interviews (even if I say so myself) conducted by me called ‘Rob McGibbon Meets’. The first is: ‘Rob McGibbon Meets Andy McNab’. He is the SAS hero who is met by me for Access Interviews.

Also on Access Interviews you will be able to read the brilliant new column called ‘Full ‘n’ Frank’, which is essentially the secret diary of an interviewer. Frank tells it how it really is in interview-land and looks like being very entertaining – unless you are a computer and can only read tech code.

I would now like to Thank all spiders and bots in advance for reading this post and crawling all over AccessInterviews.Com.

If you are a human and have read this far, Thanks. Maybe you can now search for my website – see name above – in Google and see if we are at the top.

My techie best to you all.

RM

Attention all Bots and Spiders

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Well, it was conceived about two years ago following an immaculate conception in my utterly brilliant mind and finally I am proud to announce the arrival of my new baby – a website!

All you wise men (and women) out there who have been frantically trying to follow a bright star on the internet to discover my site’s location and form can now find it on the link below.

Please leave your precious gifts in the form of traffic and do pass on the good word of its address to all your friends and work associates.

The site is dedicated to interviews and interviewers and you can find it here: Access Interviews.

Happy Christmas to One and All!

RM

Hallelujah! Access Interviews Has Dot Come.

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Well, it’s the season to be cheerful and helpful and all that, hence I found myself doing my bit for charity last night.

Strange things, comfort zones, aren’t they? Put me in front of a major celebrity or politician and I will happily ask them the most awkward or personal questions within minutes of meeting them. It’s what I do. But, I admit, I was inwardly anxious when it came to being a helper for the Breast Cancer Haven annual Christmas Carol Service at St Paul’s in Knightsbridge. Handing people order of services, donation forms and ushering them to their seats is not really my game. Or, indeed is going round with the collection basket and handing out mince pies. But I soon got into the swing of it.

Chris Tarrant, Art Malik and Penny Lancaster (Mrs Stewart) all did their bit and read sweetly. Rod graciously kept a low profile on the front pew. About 500 others sang well and dug deep into their pockets. It was a wonderful night for a truly special organisation. It is based in Fulham and runs a highly professional, multi-layered support centre for women with breast cancer. It really is a haven for women in troubled times. Maybe it is a charity you could keep in mind when you next (come on now!) do a fund raiser and are in search of a lower-profile worthwhile cause to give a bung.

If you’re really lucky you might get to hear my waitering wit at next year’s event. Just you try and say No to yet another Christmas pastry when I greet you with my Rasta-styley one liner: “Your eyes are tellin’ me lies. I know you want one of my mince pies!”.

Breast Cancer Haven

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I am glad to announce to my loyal readers that this Blog will soon exclusively bring you an enthralling new feature…

“THE DIARY OF A WOULD-BE INTERNET ENTREPRENEUR”

[adopt gravel-edged movie trailer voice over]

Based on true events. The inspiring story of one man’s struggle to create a stunning new website that will capture the imagination of the world. A tale of hardship, disappointments, grit and determination to find the courage to make his dream a reality and find, against the odds, the mythical prize of … Web Wonga.

Coming to a computer screen near you soon. With a special world exclusive link to the new site.

Don’t miss it.

Only at “Along the way…”

[THIS IDEA HAS SINCE BEEN POSTPONED DUE TO THE LEVEL OF WORK FINISHING THE WEBSITE]

EXCLUSIVE – Coming Soon . . .

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Please allow me to indulge in a tiny piece of belated product placement.

Many months ago I enjoyed a one night stay at Champneys Tring. If I was a politician, I guess I would have to make various declarations, or – more likely – not make any declarations, only to have The Guardian tell me later that the bill was settled by someone else.

Anyway, if you are thinking you are in need of a detox to prepare for all those Christmas parties, or indeed you are planning a New You for the New Year, then you could do worse than book a mini health farm break at one of the Champneys resorts. The facilities at the one in Tring are superb. A sumptuous spa, immaculate grounds, great massages and numerous other treatments, excellent food and the giant bed in a Premier room gave me the best sleep in months. It was wonderful to see Frank Bruno happily clocking up the miles on the treadmill in the gym, although it was something of a shock to have Cherie Blair plonk herself down near me in the chill out zone in her white toweling robe.

Champneys is on its game and I’m told that the company will soon launch a number of city “Day Spas” across the country.

There you go, just a tip to lift any winter health blues.

Champneys Tring

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You can tell a lot about the true nature of a “famous” person when you observe them in the wild, as it were.

I am well versed in the charade of meeting celebrities for interviews, which is a time when, understandably, they are on their best behaviour. You have to take it all with a heap of salt thrown over my shoulder.

So, I was more than a little interested when Charley Boorman (he of the ‘Long Way Up Ewan MacGregor’s Biker Leathers’ and my recent bilious review. See blog Page 956) pulled up alongside me and thudded his crash helmet on the counter at Pret in Fulham yesterday.

As he was at the till, his mobile went off. No crime. But he then proceeded to have a conversation, while lobbing the wrong money at the poor server. There was no attempt at an apology, or an embarrassed plea for understanding. No, Charley kept chatting while fumbling for the right cash, then took off still chatting with not so much a glance in his mirror to say thanks to the girl, or apologise to the people who had been behind him.

I then watched him tear off at speed on his (free) BMW superbike, with his Pret bag swinging from the throttle grip. Unfortunately, he swerved just in time as he exited onto a busy road into the path of a car. Shame, that.

A Right Boorish Charley

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I have just read some great news: Donald Trump’s plans to build a golf resort along a stretch of stunning Aberdeenshire coast have been thrown out.

I was up that way for a famous “pheasant-less shoot” last month and walked along the very beach he planned to build beside. It is one of the most beautiful stretches of beach (it has an unusual pink grain to it) and collection of sand dunes I have ever seen in the UK. From what I heard from locals, Trump’s plans were gaudy, over-sized and driven purely by money without a passing thought for the damage his resort might do to the beauty of the untouched surroundings.

For once, a council has stood up to the developers and money did not win. Certain London councils – Kensington & Chelsea and the Lots Road development, for one – should take note.

The local Aberdeen farmer who stood to cash in and has been loudly bragging in recent months – “Mr Trump ese nice n deep-lay linin’ mey puckets” – should hang his head in shame now that the deal has been tossed in the bin.

Donald McTrumped

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ASDA should be giving their in-house PR a nice bonus some time soon.

The chain got some great coverage in the newspapers today for selling Dom Perignon champagne at £30 a bottle.

I have never been to an ASDA store, but when I read that, well, I was nearly in the car within a minute. But I know an offer that is too good to be true when I see one, so I called my nearest ASDA first and had an hilarious chat with a guy in the wines and spirits department.

“There are no bottles left.”

“Really? But you have just announced this amazing promotion. Surely they can’t all have sold already. How many did you get?”

“Six bottles. We are expecting six more at some point, but no one knows when.”

SIX bottles for a giant store. Hysterical.

Give a case of the stuff to the PR who came up with this wheeze.

Every Little Bit (of Publicity) Helps

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An up-date on my problems with Virgin Media.

I finally got through to Customer Services to register my complaints this morning. A pleasant chap typed away as I dictated. He then informed me that there was really no point in me doing this as no-one would read this complaint. Eh? “There’s no need to read it. At least we have a record of the complaint.”

What utter nonsense. And this is a company that states on its pre-recorded phone loop that it is the most popular portal in the UK. W

Er, why?

My Virgin friend then declared that to have a complaint actioned I would have to write to head office. Which I am now doing.

Expect a new email address for me shortly.

A very modern dilemma: Why do we use up so much energy trying to use things that save us energy?

Virgin On The Ridiculous 2

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Right, that’s it, I have had enough. I am having to resort to a Blog to get some feedback from Virgin Media.

I know Sir Richard Branson is busy buying Northern Rock, but I really think he needs to attend to this speck of his empire before making his next billion with that building society.

I have been with Virgin.net for years. There was no obvious reason for choosing them, except that I probably bought into the dependability and geniality of the Virgin brand way back when I started email and all this tech stuff that dominates our lives.

I’ve never changed provider. I suppose it’s a but like not changing your bank account – you feel safer sticking with what you know and you can’t really be bothered to change

Well, “what I know” is no longer good enough. My email has not been sending properly for weeks. It can sometimes take a dozen tries before a message finally disappears.

Plus, my broadband connection – sold to me as “up to 8meg” is nothing of the sort. Beware of the “up to” words. It is a blag. On a good day, I currently get around 2meg. Whoopee.

But why the Blog? Well, I have been watching my life disappear on emails, lists of tech instructions, and phone calls (25p per min) to Virgin Support. It is a nightmare and I am fed up. What is happening to this company?

In exasperation, I have tried to call Customer Service to complain and get some action. Can I get through? Can I hell. Clearly, the lines are jammed with other people like me tearing their hair out at the poor service they are getting.

Well, I think I have the answer. I have Sir Richard’s personal mobile number, so I am going to call him right now and get him on the case.

And if I can’t get through, then I will post his number here. I’m sure someone out there will get through to him some time and sort this mess out.

Virgin On The Ridiculous

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Sadly, I didn’t know ‘Dear’ Bill Deedes. I never even met him. I wish I had. The reaction to his death and respectful warmth to his phenomenal spirit and joyful character has been incredible to witness. Oddly, considering I did not know the man, I have found it all quite moving. Clearly, he was a truly fine chap. What a life. What a personal legacy. Oh, to experience, achieve and leave half as much.

Equally, I do not know Charles Moore, so there is no sucking up agenda here when I say that his fine address at the memorial service is worth a listen on the Telegraph’s media player.

Just that.

Adieu

Dear Bill Deedes, RIP

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Please be careful of the steam coming from my head…

It’s late, it’s dark, half the residents’ parking is closed off. You’ve had a long day. You make a mistake and park in the wrong bay. It turns out that there is a Disabled Only sign up somewhere high, out of immediate sight.

While you sleep, the Morlocks go to work. They give the car a ticket. Then a clamp. Then they tow the bloody thing.

The next day you get a shock, a pang of worry – Has it been nicked by the benefit funded vermin you help keep warm? – then the bitter bile of realisation begins to rise. You have had the idiocy to let your guard down in this unforgiving city.

Then you get the happy snaps of the Morlocks’ fine work – and the £260 bill. TWO HUNDRED AND SIXTY BLOODY POUNDS.

Where is that loot going? Who gets what from that swag bag of 21st century highway robbery?

The thing is, this didn’t even happen to me, just to someone dear to me, but I am still steaming mad with the absurdity, the blatant theft of this system.

The upside is, I have come up with an idea to beat the clampers and tow merchants of this world. I will invite you all in very soon and we can win…

Until then: Don’t you dare relax. Keep ’em peeled. Parking Warden crime affects every driver sometime. Don’t sleep tight.

London. I love it.

Parking Crime Watch

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As I am sure you are beginning to make last minute arrangements for your winter or New Year holidays, can I just stop by with a couple of recommendations following a glorious trip earlier this year.

The Madikwe Lodge safari lodge in South Africa is sensational. Luxurious and beautiful private rooms are carved into the granite of the local rock formations, with heated floors and a private plunge pool. You even get a private outdoor bath and shower overlooking the bush. Well, totally private except for the elephants and lions looking on – in awe – as they drink at a nearby watering hole. The Madikwe staff are fantastic, as is the food. The game drives are terrific and we easily saw many multiples of four of the Big Five (the leopards eluded us) – thanks to our cheerful, eagle-eyed tracker Johannes. What a star – although one lion got a little too close and looked me square (meal?) in the eye. Most memorable sight, apart form the animals, has to be the Mars-red, iron rich earth. I even brought some home to create my own paint. (Exhibition to be announced soon).

Mauritius is only a four hour flight from Johannesburg and is an ideal place for a beach side crash out after an exhausting safari. I would strongly recommend the Hilton. I always expect the worst when I hear that name – an air-con, high rise, business hotel – but this one is part of the five star ‘Hilton Worldwide’ range. It is stunning and lacks the stuffiness of some of the other five star resorts. I finally cracked mono water skiing, thanks to Tom from the newly installed Mark Warner water sports centre, and I had the best acupressure massages in my life at the dedicated health spa.

Both these trips can be booked via the Virgin Holidays website or by calling: 0871 222 0307.

One last tip (plug): Virgin Upper Class to South Africa is superb. But make sure you give yourself a good two hours in the Clubhouse at Heathrow – just so you are, ahem, nicely relaxed for that strenuous flight.

Some Winter Travelling Tips

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Always a shame, it is, when you get that sad, sickly feeling in your gut that comes with witnessing someone you sort of admire and like at a distance of a million miles, making a total arse of themselves. Step forward, in leather, Ewan McGregor.

I tuned into BBC2’s The Long Way Down when I finally despaired of Michael Palin’s creaking journey through wherever it is he was tasting odd food or doing odd things with odd people. I glimpsed McGregor’s first motorbike world journey with Charley Boorman and stayed well away. I knew what it was in one twist of the gas: two lads blagging a monster freebie holiday on the back of one lad’s big dollop of fame. Sunday night laziness and boredom brought me to this new show.

Funnily enough, I was at the London Book Fair in 2004 when McGregor announced the first venture. How many people could get a big book deal and TV tie-in for such a self-serving, vacuous venture? The publishing girls were going nuts as McGregor ambled through the trade fair. Hilarious. Now, the guy is a brilliant actor, no doubt, but, really, girls, would he be such an out-and-out hunk if you took away the fame?

Well, take away the fame from the Long Way Down and you really would have an average looking TV show with little sex appeal and no chance of getting on the air. I’ve always thought McGregor to be a cool, un-showy Hollywood star, something of a one-off. But in this he is more like one-off the wrist and comes across as supremely spoilt and self-centred. Quote of the night came as he sat on his new BMW freebie superbike: “Just think, from tomorrow, it is only me (Me, Me, Me) and my bike for three months”. Well, yes: You and a film crew and a back-up team including a medic, drivers, fixers, tent erectors, arse wipers, and of course your big buddy Charley. Which bring me to Boorman. I worry for the man. He looks ill, unhappy and particularly strung out as he clings for all his worth to his star friend’s famous leather coat-tails. The fact that Ewan’s wife has invited herself along on the trip – and he has said he “can’t wait” – promises some dark comedy.

The Long Way Down is almost worth tuning in to for its cringe factor. It is bike crash television.

Long Way Down The Pan

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SunSational – South Africa, Daily Mirror

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I’ve just witnessed a great British crime statistic – a double car smash ‘n’ grab. Not exactly front line reporting, I know, but it’s kind of a micro shock to hear the smash of glass and the sound of alarms outside your office window at 2.50pm on a wet Chelsea afternoon.

Broad daylight, an open air office car park, just off the Kings Road, and in pedal two fearless white oiks. In unison, they smash the passenger window of a silver land cruiser and the rear window of a BMW estate at opposite ends of the car park. Very slick sychronisation. Clearly old hands at this kind of public daylight robbery.

Smash. Alarms. Various faces at windows and off our wonderful youth cycle off with a couple of bags at no great nervous speed. I caught the back of them, but didn’t even have time to open the window and shout “Sod Off, scum.” Would have been very heroic.

They went home to, no doubt, their fully supplemented abode, via the Kings Road. If anyone has been around these parts lately, they will know it has more cameras watching over it than a branch of Currys, so, catching these criminals will be a breeze. Yeah, right.

Now, if these scum had been driving their own cars, as opposed to robbing those owned by law abiding citizens, then I have no doubt that they would have felt the full weight of the law for the slightest infringement – such is the pathetic state of the police priorities in this country. And ….

… before I dismount this high horse, can I just say that I am still seething about the lack of sentence not handed out to that deranged piece of violent scum in Croydon. That bastard punched a gentle 96-year-old chap in the face. He blinded him and ruined what remains of his dignified, kind life. The punishment? Nothing. Just three years supervision. NOTHING! WHY?

It beggar’s belief and quite makes one want to find a criminal and punch one oneself. Very, very hard.

Daylight Robbery

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And, so, I thought I would be the only Englishmen heading back on the Eurostar last Saturday, just as our fine rugby players took to the battle field. Not so.

Oh no. Who should I find myself amongst but none other than an all-conquering contingent of Britain’s finest, most cynical, avaricious bastards. No, not the England football team. Ticket touts.

Yep, a pack of them took over the restaurant car to knock back the 1664s while ‘aving a count up after their triumphant excursion. And, bloody ‘eck, what wads they had. To a man, they had chunks of notes in varying currencies the size of bricks. There must have been forty-fifty grand’s wurf between them. A right nice earner. They were the only true English winners of the day.

Now, I am all up for the reward of genuine entrepreneurial endeavour, so good luck to the touts for having the energy and balls to do a dirty job. I also know touts are impossible to control, and they have their uses to their customers, but tell me this: if the government , or the police cannot stop these geezers doing the business, then why the hell can’t they are least make sure they pay ‘effing tax on their grotesque profits.

With 4.5 million CCTV cameras watching our every move (with only a fraction doing a single thing to solve crime), then why can’t the police pick out the touts at various venues (what could be easier detective work than finding a tout at work?), then get their names, check their bank balances and tax records.

I only ask this because I happened to eaves drop with utter dismay when three of the bloated scrum on that Eurostar lamented about the busy week ahead of them – then whinge about what an “agg'” it was that they had to sign on some time. Oh, what an awful inconvenience for them to have to turn up to scribble their name for some free money.

Touts: lying, dodgy scum, the lot of them. It quite makes one want to get off the train early. At high speed.

And the winners were … les touts

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What’s the definition of Good Luck, Bad Luck?

GOOD LUCK: Booking a business trip to Paris two months ago, only to discover you have prized Eurostar tickets taking you to the French capital on the day England play in the World Rugby Final.

BAD LUCK: Discovering your non-transferable return ticket has you booked on the Eurostar departing at 7.20pm – forty Froggin’ minutes before the bloody kick off.

MERDE!

SACRE BLOODY BLEU!

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It takes quite a bit to get me interested in politics, but I can’t tell you how much I’m loving all this Gordon Brown fucking-it-up stuff.

I’ve always looked upon politics as a sinister, lethal microcosm of the showbiz world. With politicians you have vainglorious, narcissistic liars playing with people’s lives and the wealth of nations, as opposed to celebrities simply greasing their careers, banks balances and general emptiness.

I’m always getting asked what a certain celebrity is really like after I have interviewed them. Naturally, many are insecure, self-obsessed egomaniacs with incurable delusional syndrome, but in general they are decent enough folk. It’s the people around them you’ve got to watch.

The agents and managers are the worst. These are the ones in the middle, milking it, scheming, shafting everyone, playing a double game, sucking up to their “talents” while all they care about is their 20%.

This is why I’m loving the Brown comeuppance that he is receiving square on the nose from the media and the country. Brown richly deserves this, for all his Machiavellian, super snide tendencies that have finally been exposed. If he has any metal, this should make him a more honest man and a better leader. I won’t hold my breath.

But it is the people behind him that I can’t help thinking about, indeed chuckling at. Imagine the bollockings from Brown – “But YOU told me to do this, you little git?”. Think of all the sycophants who have been telling their Emperor how wonderfully dressed he is since his faux coronation, how must they be feeling now? Deeply rattled, for sure, and maybe – but very unlikely – just a little bit ashamed.

They have all been caught out – big time. It’s a bit like suddenly being back at school and seeing a coterie of teacher’s oily pets finally getting caught cheating in tests and getting royally bollocked in front of assembly. Wonderful. If only it wasn’t all so serious when it comes to politics.

The Brown Stuff

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A simple, quick tip on a fabulous restaurant I visited last Friday: Baltic. It’s been there for about six years and already has a huge following and great reviews, but has only just beeped onto my radar. Always up to speed, me. (Apparently, AA Gill slagged it originally, but has been seen back there many times).

The theme of the restaurant is Eastern European and has the most amazing, mouthwatering original menu. If I only I could remember the names of the dishes to make your mouth water. The trouble is, the tradition at Baltic is to serve a variety of head-banging home-made vodkas throughout your meal. Slam dunk those on top of some superb Meursault, Margaux and a Brunello to boot, then you know you will have to relive the experience just to anchor it properly in your memory.

That said, the Scottish Rock Oysters (er, is Scotland near the Baltic?) were silver slick, the Siberian dumplings with veal and pork were sweet and moreish and the bleeding lamb was so tender I started stamping the ground like thumper. For the life of me I cannot remember what I had for dessert. I blame the pre-pudding strawberry vodka.

B-Baltic is a b-brilliant, b-buzzing restaurant. Go there for a b-big b-blow out. It is so good it is almost memorable.


Note: I have just noticed that Baltic has made into the Evening Standard’s restaurant critic Fay Maschler’s top 25 London restaurants in today’s (3rd Oct) paper.

Baltic Restaurant SE1

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And, so, to Covent Garden and The Hospital for The 2nd Hospital Club Awards. After embracing such fine hospitality, it seems only fair to do a bit of product placement for what is an outstanding private members club. (1st grovel).

It began with a Veuve Clicquot reception, then we retired to the basement TV studio for a simple, yet fine dinner (dressed crab, shepherd’s pie and peas, summer pudding, Montagny 1er Cru, Grand Cru St Emilion. Merci). The guests were a select, high-end media crowd, plus some celebs – Thandie Newton, Sadie Frost etc. I was next to Jimmy Nesbitt on PR supremo Alan Edwards’ table (am I sounding enough like Michael Winner yet? apologies).

I’ve gotta say Nesbitt was great, which was quite a revelation considering how much I have privately loathed him thanks to those bloody Yellow Pages ads. Tracey Emin joined us later and did what she always does best – snarled at everything. A memorable moment from the night was probably meeting Liz Murdoch’s impressive cleavage. Well, not her bust as such, but the stunning, naked tear drop diamond swinging heavily above it. Clearly a fake. It has to be said that this ‘thrill’ was almost trumped by suddenly becoming unwilling witness to a contretemps between one well-known media executive and a star scribe. The said writer collared the said exec’ – in clearly a rare meeting – and complained bitterly (but playfully) about not getting any lurve from the office. No phone calls, no emails, no lunches. Bleet, bleet. Nothing to say how wonderful the said writer’s work is (except, of course, a big fat cheque for not a lot, thank you). Ahh, and to think that even the much-loved, stellar names yearn for big ego fluffs from the big boss – yet still get blanked.

The awards, which celebrate talent across the creative industries, followed dinner and were also something of a revelation. No stage, no gushing trailers, no lectern, just Mariella Frostrup trotting around the room with a mic, chuckling and ad-libbing neatly to hurry things along so she could get back to relieve the babysitter. She introduced a judge, the judge presented the award at the winner’s table. Brief, modest speeches followed, although most winners declined to talk. Applause. Fros-trot. Next. Repeat as before. All done in half an hour. Bosh. Get on with chatting and drinking. Cool.

So, The Hospital has discovered the antidote to long-winded, dull awards ceremonies. Bravo.

Mariella and her mic for the BAFTAS and Oscars, please.

"Hospital Finds Cure For Dull Awards Ceremonies"

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To the tune of John Lennon’s ‘Imagine’.
A mournful John at the piano and an empty chair beside him.
ACTION!


Imagine no Alan Yentob
It’s easy if you lie
No big time presenter needed
Just pre-shot hmms and a sigh
Imagine all those expenses
Living for freeee… (aside)… oh lucky me!

Imagine jetting to any country
It isn’t hard for Al and his Pals
No need to Meet or Question
And no Researching too
Imagine all those people
Taking the total piss…

You may say I’m a schemer
But I’m not the only one
I hope someday you’ll join TV
And the world will blag as one

Imagine no commissions
I wonder if Blue Peter can
No need for Socks or Cookies
A Network without phone-in shams
Imagine no more telly people
Deceiving all the world…

You may say I’m a schemer
But I’m not the only one
I hope someday you’ll join us
And the world will do Noddies at no-one

(With respect to JL).

Imagine: No Alan Yentob

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Monday night veg-out saw me tuck into a double portion of gut-churning culinary TV turkey, ‘Nigella Express’ and ‘Hell’s Kitchen’.

I had just rustled up a vegetarian shepherd’s pie, then failed to answer the closing questions on University Challenge, when up popped Nigella. At times, I wonder what onyx stone I have been living under because the entire Nigella Goddess phenomena-thingy pretty much passed me by, but suddenly here she was, in super nauseating close up, super glammed-up, and oh-so-super, super-sized in her super home.

Really, this programme had me spluttering on my lentils from start to finish. It was an unexpected, unintentional comedy gem. I found myself waiting for Nigella to suddenly double up over her spare tyre with laughter as the camera pulled back to reveal Richard Curtis, script in hand, directing a Comic Relief special. It is beyond parody.

Nigella, oh-so-busy, oh-so-stressed, hopping into a black taxi to the Waitrose in Belgravia, then back in a taxi to her hellish Eton Square home, then cooking frantically in her Mayfair restaurant-spec kitchen for her family and chums. I’m sure the stress of the taxi trips resonated with all those who struggle on the bus to the local Lidl with ten quid to feed five.

But it was Nigella’s menu that had me tickling the belly lard with mirth. Pork chops fried in oil with a double cream mustard sauce and gnocchi, or deep fried calamari with garlic mayonnaise. The gut-busting coupe de grace was Nigella coming home to twinkling Christmas lights after a liver full of champers, to curl up in bed with a couple of stale croissants baked in cream and egg. And, then, she came back for more with EXTRA cream before settling down for a late night heart attack. Hilarious. Rename this show ‘Nigella’s Express Taxi Route To Becoming A Fat Knacker’.

Another fat knacker turned up in ITV’s Hell’s Kitchen – Mark Peter White from Leeds, aka Marco Pierre White. Marco kept going on about the fact that he hadn’t been in a kitchen for seven and a half years. By the size of him, he couldn’t have been far from one. If anything, he looks like he’s spent the best part of his resting years on a park bench, or in a box on the Embankment. Marco sounds addled and looks so poorly he can only be a packet of fags or a Nigella pudding away from a defibrillator.

I presume the intention behind such a “Legend” doing this crass – and, it has to be confessed, pathetically addictive show – is to re-heat the souffle of his former glory. Well, by the sight of this opener, it ain’t gonna rise an inch. Would your taste buds get wet at the thought of Marco sweating and wheezing over your grub, his infested hair swooshing around while he man-handles it all with his grubby savaloy fingers? (I never realised just how much grease-ball chefs handle the food until these shows. Urgh).

Oddly enough, Marco didn’t come across as the beast that everyone at ITV expects, indeed insists. If anything, he seemed nervous and genuinely encouraging and avuncular to his hapless “celebrities”, rather than truly nasty like Ramsay. Maybe this genuine nicer side of him will gradually come across more and save his bacon.

But there is only one way to beef up Hell’s Kitchen and make it a dish worth serving: bring in Nigella.

Note: Since writing this blog, it has been revealed that Nigella’s home shots are a big fat porky pie and actually filmed in a studio in South London.

Fat Knacker Night

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Hail be to Damien Hirst, Lord of the Blag-n-Swag, the leading Taking The Piss-Artist of the 21st century, he has sold his diamond encrusted skull to a group of Bandwagon Believers for $100million. Bravo, and what a snip for them, I say. And to think, they don’t even own all of it – Damien still owns a slice. Incroyable! Really, I do doff my diamante Von Dutch trucker’s cap to him.

Well, in a scoop of journalistic enterprise to rival Damien’s 29-carat chutzpah, I have managed to snag the interview all those vile media people wanted – a chat with the real owner of the skull. Yes, after a flurry of calls to contacts in the Afterlife, I managed to track him down to a silver lined cloud, playing his platinum harp, for a full and frank talk. A genuine out-of-this world exclusive.

Naturally, as the progenitor of this interview idea, I really should not have to be arsed with actually doing the bloody thing myself. Like Hirst, I am generally minded to get serfs to do the tiresome nitty-gritty of creativity for me, to save my energies for photo calls, preview nights and, of course, money counting. Unfortunately, all my writing slaves are currently hard at work in my Word Factory in Wapping compiling articles, film scripts, plays and novels for me to bask in the glory of their creation at a later date. Hence, it fell to me to conduct this work. Yawn-bloody-yawn, work, what a mug’s game. If there was already such an interview in existence I would have just copied it, but alas No.

I discovered that the real owner of the skull was a young man called Mikel Sumjuans-Rippunmeov, who heralded from the darkened nether regions of Central Europe in the early 18th century. He was something of a star in his day, rising from humble roots in Bristolianav to become a celebrated alchemist. However, it all went a bit pink pear-shaped when the tricks of his trade were revealed and people realised that he was not making gold after-all, but instead a yellowy worthless lead. Ultimately, he died a premature and violent death, but more of that later.

I meet Mikel – who prefers to be called Mick – at a secret location. Tired and little bit grouchy at the skulduggery of recent events, he opened is heart to me.

RM: Well, Mick, welcome back to Earth with a bump. How are things for you at the moment? I see you are not wearing a head today – is that a fashion statement on the Other Side?

MS-R: Yeah, being headless is a bit in vogue ‘round my neck of the woods, but I’m not a big follower of fads – it’s all bollocks. I’m not wearing my head simply because some chuffing sheister nicked it centuries ago and I never found a decent replacement.

RM: Hmm, ouch, I see. What happened to it?

MS-R: I don’t really want go in to it because it all feels like another lifetime to me. I’ve moved on since then. But, basically, a group of gravediggers called the Shite Cubists dug me up and took my head. They were a big bunch of crooks at the time and got up to all kinds of shit.


RM: But surely that was illegal? Why weren’t they caught and hung, drawn in pencil and dunked into gooey liquid and put on show at the Sarky and Malarkey gallery for violent offenders?

MS-R: Well, they managed to blag everyone that they were recycling body bits in the name of Art. I mean, how anyone fell for it, I don’t know. But people were pretty stupid back then. Not much has changed, that’s for sure.


RM: How do you feel about your skull now being made of platinum and encrusted with diamonds and sold for a moderate Earth fortune?

MS-R: Not good, I can tell you. No.1 – I could do without the flaming publicity. I was chilled out on Cloud 9 before all this. And No.2, I’ve had it up to here (Mick raises a rotten hand to his collar) with being exploited. I mean, these people are messing with my head – literally. And who is this bloke Damien Turdst, what right has he got to bleed my image rights dry? How the hell would he feel if I came down to his castle in Devon with a big rusty sickle and said, “Alright, mate, I’m here for your head because I’ve got this exhibition coming up in Heavenox Square in St James’s and my manager Dank Dumpy needs something a bit fresh. Swoosh. See you later.” Not happy, I bet.

RM: I see that the celebrated art historian Rudi Fuchsup has called Hirst’s skull “celestial” and a “victory over decay”. You’re clearly someone who knows about decay, do you agree?

M-SR: Fuchsup is talking out of his big fat decay tube. I tell ya, man, these art people make me want to kill myself. The bullshit they come out with. And people believe ‘em!

RM: Now that the skull has been bought, do you have any message for the buyers and indeed Mr Hirst.

M-SR: Oh, yeah. For the love of God give me my fucking head back, you little shits.


Part Two of this interview “The years before I lost my head” continues soon…

For the Love of God, Your’re Taking the Mick

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As much as it pains me not to be moaning in a Monday morning Post, one must give credit where credit is due: the wretched Ryanair seems to be on top of its game and provided a faultless service from Stansted to Oslo at the weekend. Easy check ins, on time departures, early arrivals both ways. All for sixty-something quid per head. What more could a penny-pinching passenger wish for? They now even have a fully functioning “Priority Seating” plan which kept the Artist and I out of the demeaning seat scrum for a few extra pounds.

A couple of minor questions: why would owner Michael O’Leary spend $10 billion on a stack of new planes – and boast about all this in the rubbish in-flight magazine – when he totally messed them up on delivery. Tell me now, who in their right mind would splash out that kind of dosh and then say: “D’yee know what dees planes need to loiven dem up is some broight yellow head-rests and panels. Dat’ll froighten de loife out of dem fecking passengers.”

Seriously, who the hell thinks screaming canary yellow fittings are a good way to decorate a plane. Pass dat derre sick bag.

And is it really necessary to fleece your customers so gratuitously for the in-flight refreshment service? A sky-high £2.80 for a micro tin of Bavaria piss lager? Only an idiot would pay so much.

That’ll be me then.

Fair Plays To Yee

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Wish me luck, I’m heading off on a Ryanair flight today. This is despite vowing two years ago, after a miserable journey from Pisa, never to travel with them again.

Back then, I said I would happily pay whatever extra it costs to avoid being buffeted along by the elbows and shoulders of sweating, wheezing fellow travellers, as we were herded to a shock yellow seat for the joy of flying to the appalling shrill of in-flight advertising over the Tannoy. What a way to treat your customers.

But what did it for me with Ryanair was the baggage weight charade at check-in at Pisa. My relatively minimal holiday baggage had beefed up a touch, thanks to a paltry, single case of fine Tuscan red I had sourced from a small vineyard outside Montepuliciano. To take it home, I would have to pay excess baggage which negated any previous saving. The Artist and I shuffled off and re-arranged the bags to sneakily spread the load into our hand luggage. It felt cheap and pathetic, yet while we did this, we watched several people check in without a hitch after us despite clearly having eaten their life’s quota of pizza and pasta while on holiday.

Tell me, where is the fairness in penalising passengers who might be, hmmm, on the slimmer side for carrying a few extra pounds in a bag, when Mr and Mrs Golightly are packing an added, say, ten stones between them around their midriffs and derrieres?

Well, I’m heading off on Ryanair for this weekend break because no other airline goes to this destination at anything near a reasonable rate. To avoid putting bags in the hold and to keep within the hand luggage weight, I have studied the baggage dimensions and restrictions on the Ryanair website like a swot in A-level week. God help me. Consequently, I am travelling lighter than ever in my life. Robair – no frills indeed.

Lighter Than Ryan Air

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On such a glorious morning, after such a privileged chance to jog by the river to awaken my world, I really should apologise for stopping by to let my bile dribble across your screens. But I must return to the chuffing C-c-CON-gestion Charge (Blog 1476a/delta.doc).

I got a nasty, neat note from the bastards running the big bad Transport For London computer yesterday demanding fifty quid. It was a shock and it took some remembering, but then I realised that Yes I should indeed be fined – for having the imbecilic indecency to be human for a moment last week and behave spontaneously.

I fleetingly re-routed a weekend escape trip out of London to buy presents for some children. A modest little something that took me to a toy shop on the Kings Road before I headed out of the Smoke. My mind temporarily slipped from the disgusting Big Brother programme that has been forcefully up-loaded into the brains of all K&C residents since the introduction of the Extension Zone last February: think, plan, pay before you do anything. Or they will stick it to you.

This is no way to live. I know I should have taken my unfair punishment in one instant hit by paying a year’s subscription to the Thieving F-uffing Liars when this sorry lie was first spun. Instead I have let them mug me whenever my guard is down. You see, I have forgotten before and I will probably forget again. Because that is what humans do and what machines will never do.

Tell me, why is it not possible to alert you when you have been in the Zone? A text message, an email? Surely this is possible but, of course, not profitable, so why would they do it. TFL rely on people being human, so they can get you. Well, they can shove my fifty quid right up their big fat Ethernet port. I hope it makes them happy. Ken, you are a complete C-c-con.

I hate this scheme and I hate the people behind it. Above all, I hate the way it makes me feel. Watched. Powerless. Robbed. Angry.

Thank you for listening. Do send me the bill for the rag to wipe away the bile!

Fifty Quid’s Worth of Bile

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“I’m so vein, you’ll probably think this Blog is about me …”

It’s not often you get an invitation to be a guinea pig in the name of cosmetic science research. A righteous cause if ever there was one. “Rob, do you fancy getting your veins zapped?” asked Sarah Chapman, a dear friend and respected skincare therapist (soon to be tycoon). “Erm, well, super offer, thanks. But are you saying I actually have veins that need to be zapped?” As if I didn’t know.

Now, amongst the legion of freebies I have shamelessly accepted in the course of journalistic enterprise, this has to be one of the oddest. (Actually, a week on the QE2 with Terry Duckworth takes some beating). Naturally, like all well-trained free-loading hacks, I said Yes – although my real motivation, you see, was to help Chapman train a new therapist and had absolutely nothing to do with the red insignia gradually appearing upon my cheeks and nose following years of strenuous bar work.

And, so, I stretched out on a treatment bed at the ‘Skinesis’ clinic in Chelsea, with the sound of clinking crystal from Daphne’s below drifting through the window, while three women examined my face with a special glow lamp to reveal the tracks of my decadent past. Much to my amazement, my broken veins are not bad at all and my fears that I am heading for payback in the shape of a port nose that could light up the Embankment are ill-founded. That’s not to say my hard partying has gone unnoticed. Heaven forbid.

For about 20 minutes, the new assistant deftly ran a laser probe across various patches of my face and nose while I “Ooh’ed” and “Argh’ed” like a wimp at each and every light nip of the skin. And then it was done.

Today, those areas are red and blotchy, like I have had a good go at some spots in the mirror, but by tomorrow they will be gone. And, then, I will be free to go out in pursuit of new badges to represent my partying heart.

OK, call me vain, but at least you won’t call me veiny.

Phew, I’m not so vein afterall

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So, what’s a newly married man supposed to do when he gets his first night away from the new wife? Go on a heavy session with the lads and re-tread old haunts? It’s a bit soon for nostalgia for me, so last Friday I did what any self-respecting bloke without a functioning telly would do – I took a long slow walk to the Royal Albert Hall, via the Anglesea, for my first Prom.

I thought I would sample a last-minute “gallery” ticket for a fiver to listen to some quality classical music at feet tingling altitude amongst the “Prommers”. Puffing slightly, I finally arrived at the top deck of the RAH and knew immediately this is not the way I want to listen to Beethoven’s 9th, a much-loved personal favourite.

I’m all up for new experiences, me, but up there I found it infested with a hairy bunch of unkempt, bare-or-soily-sock-footed, picnic-munching,soap-swerving fuddy-duddies and trainee old-before-their-timers. It was like an airport lounge during the French air traffic controllers’ annual strike, with Prommers stretched out on chequered blankets guarding their six-inch sections of laced iron balustrade like sentries in Stalag 17. Elgar’s notes crawled up gasping from below to wrestle for ear-space with the crackle of crisp packets, the fingering of strawberries in creased plastic punnets, and embarrassed usherettes hissing at people to drink their chardonnay contraband outside. Tell me, what is the F-flat point of coming to a classical concert if all you want to do is stuff your big fat furry face? How will you ever know your arse from your oboe if you’ve got a gob full of Walkers?

I immediately regretted not buying a £35 best seat in romantic pursuit of a new experience, so I did the next best thing – I craned over a coleslaw and tomato salad box to scope the arena below for an empty seat. I spotted a cluster of six-or-so near the stage. Years of events experience has taught me that there is no such thing as a 100% sell out, even the First Night of the Proms. And, one tip, if you are ever going to jib in and risk the humiliation of being the only lemon left standing in a fully seated arena, you may as well shoot for the best of the best seats.

So, while the mob was getting stuck into dessert during the interval, I ghosted into the main auditorium and took up position in my new swivel velvet aisle seat in Row 7 – right next to the choir, behind the violins, beside the percussion man and the nervous fellow checking the position of a tiny triangle for the hundredth time. If I had been any nearer to the orchestra, I would have been taking precise instructions from the conductor. But the best thing of all, I was about 3,000ft below the fetid munchers.

And there I waited, indeed sweated, to see if anyone would claim this sensational seat. It was an anxious wait as late-comers piled in for the main event and the vacant cluster was reduced to just one single spare – mine. I have never been happier to hear the opening bars of the 9th. But, my oh my, was it worth the worry. What followed was one of my personal all-time great entertainment pieces, 70 minutes of unadulterated, goose-bumping joy. There are few things in life more inspiring and uplifting than seeing a full orchestra playing in unison.

I’ve “seen” the 9th a few times before and it always makes me cry. Not in a blubbing, hanky-soaked style, but in the simple welling up way. Such is the power of this piece live that my eyes had filled up again within a few minutes of this performance. And the aural power surge when the magnificent double choir – TWO HUNDRED AND SEVENTY EIGHT OF THEM! – stood up for the finale almost lifted me out of my free seat to join in. Even watching the high pressure moment when Triangle Man’s moment cometh was truly memorable. He successfully filled the Albert Hall with his little instrument and I saw the relief on his face from about four feet.

Anyway, don’t take my word for it. The piece is playing again during this Prom season. My advice: Go, see, hear it for yourself. Forget the gallery. Leave them to their dinner. Spend more, get a good last minute seat. It was the best thirty five quid I never spent.

First Sight of the Proms

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“We apologise for the recent extended Intermission in this Blogging service. This has been due to some much needed technical improvements to Rob McGibbon’s life.

He is now fully rebooted after being installed in a new home, a new office and, indeed, in a new life – as a married man.

Hence, the previous erratic blogging service will start and stop again very soon.

Thank You.”

Intermission Announcement

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A good while back I suggested to Gordon Ramsay’s publicist that his client is in desperate need of new recipe for his flabby, over-cooked public persona. He basically told me to eff off and stop being so stupid.

I was vaguely interested in Ramsay for a short time, long ago, but I knew that distant fascination had turned very sour recently when I was out choosing new crockery. I came across the Ramsay range and raged to my dearly beloved, “There is no way I’m having that git’s branded crap in my house. I would rather smash every one of them and eat off the carpet than have his name under my fucking dinner.” We went for Vera Wang Something-or-Other and Jamie Oliver’s Teflon pans instead. Now, Jamie, he’s a nice, genuine lad, I could cook with him. Ramsay, I would just want to beat to death with the heaviest pan in the collection.

I watched the return of the F-Word to see if it had improved. Starting from such a low heat, it didn’t have far to rise, so I felt it might be better. Oh dear, no. This has got to be the biggest, nastiest dinner any dog has ever been served. Here are a few alternative F-words for this show: Fundamentally Fake, Facile, Faeces.

I wish Gordon well with his empire. No doubt he is a madly driven, great businessman, he might even be a truly brilliant chef, but when it comes to telly, his ridiculous swearing, yobbishness, bullying, bare-chested, vainglorious nonsense is about as appealing as a burger made from manure with a rabid dog’s piss dressing.

Hey, Big Boy, could you do me, Channel 4 and everyone else a big favour and Fuck Right Off?

The answer you are looking for, mate, is: Yes, Chef.

A F-f-few F Words For Gordon

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A few quick steps back to the Blog to let you know I’m still alive. People do worry. All is well. Indeed, I am all-a-jive.

After a week of brash, high volume showbiz ‘n’ media, exchanged over tepid Veuve Clicquot, cold canapes and tickling spit in my ears, I headed to groovier, more wholesome entertainment last Saturday: The Rivoli.

This was an impromptu, last minute call – often the best – and what a night to cherish. The Rivoli dance hall in Brockley is a proud relic of the 1950s, a fragile, time-warped shelter of crushed crimson velvet, flaking fake gold leaf and dust laden ceiling lanterns. But despite the delicate museum nature of its contents, the Rivoli has a strong, passionate beating heart and, on this night, an equally loud swing band.

These days, I would normally require a keg of beer with an oak aged barrel chaser of wine before I start dancing, but I was up there, doing my stuff on the smooth parquet after no more than a sip of Krononbourg (£2.30 a pint. Positively 1950s prices compared to the rip off Royal Borough bars, where it is, I think, £3.40). So, I got to jive with my mum, a couple of sisters and an aunt and another girl picked at random. What a hoot. And what a sweat. The ballroom is tantamount to a tropical gym with spinning and hopping people doing manic five minute interval training sessions. I caught one guy, clearly a dedicated dancer, changing into his third shirt of the night in the loo. “You can’t have too many,” he said sagely.

What you notice most at the Rivoli is the laughter and smiles. The people on the dance floor are a vision of grinning faces, as are those looking on. There is a huge age range – early 20s to 70s, maybe even 80s – and everyone seems bonded by a deep sense of nostalgic innocence and an over-riding quaintness. For a few hours, you are not exactly transported to a time that may have been better – when people, possibly, never had it so good – but you certainly feel happily disconnected, however fleetingly, from the claustrophobic complexities of digitalised life in the 21st century. The modest, threadbare room and simple bar erases all pretension: you can sip a cup of tea here with a bread roll, or tuck into champagne, it’s all fine; guys can ask a girl to dance without appearing to be on the pull. And girls say Yes – they even form a polite queue at one end of the floor. Imagine something similar in a posing modern club. Never.

The Rivoli has a definite, enduring magic. Thankfully, its owner turned down £4 million from McDonald’s to preserve it. Good on him, a modern hero. I was born a few hundred yards away and my mum and dad used to go there in the early ’60s. It was always cheerily pointed out during drives into town when we were kids. Now I have been and I’ve even jived there with mum. Very cool.

Maybe you should go, too. Take your mum. The Rivoli is a delightful departure from wherever you are in 2007. Go. Swing. Sweat. Smile.

Jive’s Alive – and so am I!

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Some pleasing news on the progression of the Sally cards. My March statement from Peartree Heybridge shows we sold 4,260 in our first full month. Pretty good going. The team are so happy that at a meeting in London yesterday we agreed to add four new cards to the range and bring out a branded weekly planner and a spiral notebook. The Sally duvets and liveried Beetle are a year or so away.

Ps: Can I dispense with a few items of clutter in my head from that Easter break?

*My first visit to the boat race was nearly a sinking stinker. My crew got clogged up amongst the mob by the pubs at Hammersmith Bridge, or as I now call it, “Hammered-twats Bridge”. It was choked with people getting so totally wasted that I reckon the Spanish Armada could have sailed by and they wouldn’t have noticed a thing. Why does every sporting event in Britain revolve around people getting blotto? Not that I can talk, mind. Anyway,the day was saved by wading back up (or is it down?) river nearer Fulham. I have to say that it was nothing short of joyous seeing those boats and those fine – and truly blessed – men s’oaring for all their worth. The sun blazed high above the old Harrods Depository and danced over the water as the two boats passed by a few feet apart. A stunning freeze frame image to treasure. (Oh, and the rose wine was cold and delicious, too).

*Gary Lineker seems a decent bloke and he has an amiable enough telly delivery, but he just doesn’t fit with golf and The Masters. Call me a southern jessie but that (Leicestershire?) accent of his irritated me like hell each time his voice over came on to say “The Masss-tas” with some clunking round up. Bring back the smooth, knowledgeable Steve Rider. And will someone tell Peter Aliss to takes his bloody clubs home. Really, enough.

*I got stuck in an hour-plus, eight mile traffic jam on the M23 with the rest of the day out mob on Sunday. Weight of traffic, road works, an accident? No, nothing so predictable. There was a stock car rally on some waste ground by the motorway near Gatwick. No hoarding or screens up, so you had thousands of drivers slowing down for a quick look. There was even a police car there to monitor the jam – with the cops also watching the races. I have never experienced such a ridiculous, annoying, easily avoidable traffic jam. Get the organisers to put up some screens, or it will be a stock car race on the M23 next time.

*I do my bit to be ecologically well behaved, but really, I do despair. What is the bloody point in me putting up energy saving bulbs at home when every single motorway light pylon is at full beam at midday on a sunny day? Give me a break.

Ahh, that’s better. Thank you for sharing all that with me!

Sally On The March

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I’ve never been much of one for doing the giving up stuff for Lent. I’ve always seen it as a bit like those New Year’s resolutions – novelty discipline for the weak willed that is doomed to failure. Well, that’s what always happens to me anyway. And, besides, I live my life by deadlines, so why create yet another one with Lent.

For some reason I found myself giving up things this year. Don’t ask me why. Maybe I am becoming bi-religious-curious, or something. I thought long and hard about what form my hair shirt would take and chose two luxuries I consume regularly and would miss badly: chocolate and beer. Chocolate is always there to cure the boredom and beer finds its way into my life on most days, normally as an instant sedative in the casualty ward (aka: a pub) where I check into after a rubbish day.

Amazingly, I have not had a drop of beer since Lent began. It has been suprisingly easy and quite fulfilling. Discipline is good, I recommend it, although I admit I have drunk probably twice as much wine, so what have I really achieved? I had also not touched chocolate until a few hours ago when I walked past Charbonnel et Walker in Mayfair and was seduced by a man with a tray of champagne truffles. A free truffle? Don’t mind if I do, thank you. Only as that divine, dusted ball disappeared in one gulp did I realise that I had suddenly failed my fast. A moment’s memory lapse and I had messed up, fallen splat with the finishing line in sight. I cursed myself, then went into the shop and bought of few boxes of truffles as presents, which earned me several more freebies. I swallowed them hungrily with pleasure. If you are going to fail, fail with a flourish.

But, I’m still OK on the beer front. I can hold out until Sunday, no problem. So, Easter for me will mean everything. It will mean a big decision – like lager or bitter? Lager and bitter, probably. Very spiritual, I’m sure.

Happy Easter.

Happy Discipline

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A full and varied week has just drawn to a close with a surreal moment.

Now, I’m fairly used to celebrities in my local health club. I’ve had the likes of Julia Roberts and Hugh Grant spread out beside me on the stretching mat and, you know, they wince just like the rest of us folk in the gym.

But it was a slightly more unusual sleb sighting earlier as I stood in the changing room in only my unters watching the cricket. A guy came in, alighted right next to me and stripped off in a flash. It was none other than Ralph Fiennes. Like all good reporters, I made my excuses and looked away.

Now, if I had experienced this a few weeks ago, I might have been minded to annoy Ralph by validating his performance in The English Patient (year?), or more likely for his stunning Hamlet which I witnessed from Row A in Hackney (year? Oh, the memory doth failest me). But, as he stood next to me and we did all we could to avoid eye contact, my mind began racing with a string of disrespectful, inappropriate questions, one of which included: “Hey, Ralph, would you recommend the in-flight entertainment on Qantus?”.

Terrible things, tabloid newspapers. They quite change the way one thinks.

Celebrity Changing Rooms

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The hangover has just about cleared and I am wondering what I can report from the British Press Awards. The reason I’m slightly at a loss is that it was quite a dignified, if not muted, affair. Quite extraordinary, really, when you consider the Great Room was packed with around 700 journalists. But, I’m sure it is better this way than the feral rattle pit of the Hilton in years gone by.

Press Gazette did a fine job and I think the winners were a fair and balanced reflection of talent and achievements. Certainly, I was satisfied with the outcomes in my two judging categories – Scoop and Interviewer (Daily Mirror’s Prezza Affair and the Daily Telegraph’s Jan Moir respectively). I feel that Robert Crampton deserved a commendation – he is an excellent interviewer and writer who had a good year – and I was relieved that the Sunday Times won Team of the Year for their cash for honours expose, which evened out missing the Scoop award.

I was delighted for Roger Alton. He has worked wonders with The Observer, but deep down I felt the Mirror had shaded it and had been my pick for a stand out year. I understand that Roger modestly, graciously said as much, too, but the Mirror had plenty to cheer about.

The award winning drunk of the night was won hands down by Nick Cohen who hugged me like a long-lost brother (we’ve never met) while glugging white wine with an unquenchable thirst. Lord knows how he felt the next day.

But one of the highlights of my night has to be an impassioned chat with *******************. I don’t remember a single bloody word of it. Now that’s what I call a result!

British Press Awards

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I don’t want you thinking that I’m some Wembley groupie or anything, but here’s a quick chip in following a second visit for the U21’s game against Italy.

This time I got to mix with the mob by going on the Tube and walking up Wembley Way, then sit in the family area. There is definitely a sense that the new Wembley is being easily accepted with a similar, if not greater degree of affection and mysticism as was afforded to the old gaff. People were excitedly yelling into mobiles that they were there, or posing for pictures. There were plenty of grumbles, too, about the food prices. And there was a visible sense of shock in the gents loos when some bloke (probably mistakenly) started the hot air hand dryers. They are tuned to such a volume and force that you feel you suddenly on the tarmac nearing a charter flight to the Balearics.

I did further seating research by wandering around the stadium checking out views and there doesn’t seem to be a particularly bad seat in the house, although I have some reservations about the press box. It is neat and functional and obviously brilliantly placed, but it is a little bit cramped. I fear for the comfort of some of Fleet Street’s more fuller figured scribes when they try to squeeze their indulged forms into the fixed swing chairs. Actually, I don’t give a toss. I hope they get chronic cramp as they watch some of the best football from the best seats in the house, the lucky bastards!

Certainly, all seems more than well for Wembley. One thing for sure made me realise I was back came when a sneering, pot-marked weasel stood in front of me and snarled: “Ticket? You need a ticket?” We had a momentary chat and he offered me a £10 ticket for £60 – “OK, giss’a a bullseye.” Yes, of course, please let me. Then I heard another lizard from the abyss hiss: “‘eds up, Frank. Old bill.”

Some things never change.

Wembley 2

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I will quickly go back in time and give you a squint at last night’s Premiere of Dr Who, the 3rd series. The word “premiere” seems a bit grand for a TV sci-fi show, but I guess we’re in National Treasure territory.

Certainly, there was quite a media scrum when I arrived at the Mayfair Hotel. Late, I turned up just as David Tennant and new girl Freema Agyeman arrived. We walked in together, past the pack of paps and adoring Who fans. I expect they have a proper group name. One – with teeth from the middle ages and hair specially doused in Castrol GTX for the occasion – asked for my autograph. Such is fame. He must have thought I was an alien from the new show. Did he think I was in, or out of costume? I would like to think he was in.

There were a few faces there who appear in various guises of the new series. Dawn French, Michelle Collins, Catherine Tate, Roy Marsden. You know, the domestic loved ones from the BBC archives. The booze was red/white plonk from Oz, beer, and the spread of food was, um, pistachio nuts. Yes, on their own. I expect the Beeb believes these nuts will be all humans will need to survive in the future.

Jonathan Ross – there with all his family – sat behind me for the screening of the first two episodes and …

more follows later. I need to pop out to the 1860s…

(Well, I can tell you – the 1860s aren’t all they were cracked up to be. Where was I…)

… I do admire the man’s enthusiasm. He clapped and cheered and wriggled in his seat like an over-excited 10 year old, getting up for the loo twice, loudly scoffing two tubs of popcorn etc. The Ross family en masse are quite crew. Full of fun and affection, they seem to throw themselves into a party. Mum Jane even smuggled the newest edition to clan into the screening under her coat – a tiny puppy called Sweeney. I’m not good on dogs, me, but it was one of those little bug-eyed ones with bandy legs. I think the old dear in EastEnders had one sometime last century.

Anyway, back to the Tardis. I was a Dr Who fan in my younger years. Jon Pertwee, the Brigadier and the Master was my time. I remember liking the dinosaurs and London scenes, but I was never a really Who-spod. (What are they bloody called?) I interviewed Jon once, over a Thai lunch in Soho in around 199-not-so-sure. Hilarious. I also interviewed his son Sean a couple of times back in The Chancer years in 199-oh-I-don’t know. A good bloke.

Anyway, back to the new series. I haven’t seen a single shot of the recent revival. Can’t see the point, really, not on my sonic radar, so I came into this way off-the-pace. It’s very good, a real inter-galactic romp with wit and action, as well as – naturally – a plot that never changes. I liked Tennant, although I suspect his arching eyebrow and beady eyeball will become quite tiring by Ep13.

The special effects are very good, but I can’t help thinking that this new Dr Who is almost too good. I’m sure that is a well-aired, weary complaint from my generation, all dewy eyed for wobbly sets and badly painted table tennis balls. But, actually, I don’t yearn for any of that tat, it’s just that all this blue-screen digital enhancement smothers natural imagination. Terry Gilham made such a point, far better than me, at a fantastic lecture at the Artworkers Guild recently.

But there I go, drifting back to the past again. Time for the present.

Dr Who, 3rd series Premiere

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The morning haze drifted over me while I listened to the brilliant John Humprheys get precisely nowhere with Gordon “Uncle Joe” Brown and it reminded me of a previous post.

By repeating myself, I am in danger of sounding like a politician, but let me put this to you, if I may, in the clearest of terms: What really is the fucking point in interviewing Gordon Brown?

Purge these thankless political interviews. Now.

And let me put this to you, too . . .

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Two very quick little tips.

Dinner last night at Cafe du Marche in Smithfields was, well, merveilleux. It was my first visit to its downstairs restaurant, Le Grenier. Four us. A bottle of Montagny 1er Cru helped us through some fine starters. Mine was faultless fish soup. Then my mate and I chomped like ravenous game reserve beasts through a spectacular, bloody cote de boeuf – it is made for two – with a bottle of Chateau Sarget St Julien 2000. The girls had skate wings and venison. Pear tart to finish for me. A duo on piano and double bass tinkled and plucked away sweetly in the background. A cosy venue on a freezing night. Immaculate service, no attitude and no needless frills. Allez!

Something I forgot to mention: the small but perfectly formed collection of Gwen John’s work is worth a squint at Browse and Darby in Mayfair. I went to the private view last week. Her light, pencil portraits and drawings – torn from pages of sketch pads she probably meant never to be exhibited – are like whispers from her mind. Her work is in short supply. It’s not exactly expensive, so why not drop in and buy something, if there’s anything left, that is.

In case you have been wondering, my first canvas is nearly finished and will be exhibited here soon. Thrilling, non?

En passant . . .

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It was good to be back at Wembley on Saturday. I say “back” because it gifts me the chance to throw in a favourite anecdote fom the annals of my (insert an adjective of your choice) life. By all means skip the next par or two.

The last time I was at Wembley was in November 1999 when I scored the winning goal in the final of a cup competition. Do let that sink in. This puts me in a very rare club. I make no apology for this shameless boast, although it does need a touch of earthing, some qualification.

The final was in a media game. Twenty minutes each way with every player pulling up regularly to gasp for air, hands on hips and face to the scared Wembley turf, before limply booting another misguided pass. I was a ringer for the News of the World and we had got through various rounds to play GQ in the final. I was up front. I can still see all the “action” of my goal now. It was as if it happened in slow motion. In fact, at our pitiful, schoolboy-strength of play, it was slow motion.

In the first half, a cross came over from the right and one of my brilliant team mates – let’s call him Pele – headed it back across the goal. Well, it ricocheted off his shoulder and he fell over, as if hit by a sniper. The ball bounced ahead of me in the six yard box and seemed to freeze. It was an invitation to immortality. A ball, a few yards from me, in front of a goal, at WEMBLEY. I lunged for all I was worth, the keeper scrambled, but I managed to connect with the ball first with toe and studs and gave it a desperate little poke. It dribbled into the right corner, barely troubling the string of the net. But it was a goal. Ultimately, the goal. The crowd (can you call 100-max in a stadium a crowd? OK, the gathering) went wild. The commentator called out my number (8) on the Tannoy and then, after a pause as he looked me up on the team sheet, my name echoed – literally – around the hallowed stadium.

My celebrations were curtailed. There was no excited, fatty-boy jog to the fans because in my desperation to stretch and score I had ripped my right hamstring to shreds. In total agony, I could hardly walk and immediately had to go off. (The sub was the NoTW’s “official” striker and he has – quite seriously – hated me to this day for stealing what he considered his moment in history). Whatever the merits of my skill, that was the goal wot won it. We followed our inspirational player/manager, Jimmy O’Leary, up the famous steps to collect the trophy – bizarrely, a shiny ice bucket – from Geoff Hurst and Jimmy Greaves. Cheers and bubbles in the famous bath and songs and beer on the coach home to Wapping in suits provided by Burton. Thank you for sharing this with me.

Anyway, as I was saying, I was back at Wembley for the community day, and what a stadium. It really is vast, wonderful, and even beautiful, as much as concrete and red seats can be. Even with no more than 20,000 watching a celebrity kick-a-bout, the noise when something happened was tremendous. The steep-sided Coliseum-like bowl seems to make the noise twirl and whoosh up over the crowd with huge force. When full, the atmosphere will be extraordinary and will make your heart pound. I will be back there again on Saturday for the Under 21’s and will report back.

Naturally, there were a few teething problems on this opening day, although it seems unfair to dwell on them. I queued for 45 minutes for fish and chips at a food bar that resembled Gatwick on a strike-hit bank holiday. I gave up when it was clear I had another half an hour to go, so I settled for a bag of crisps (Walkers SnV Big Bag, £1.50). Later I climbed to row 45 of the upper tier to check out the view from what I guess will be the worst seat in Wembley – and one any self-respecting ligging hack hopes never to occupy. Such is the altitude, I half expected to see Ralph Fiennes cavorting with one of the ticketing stewards. Oddly enough, the view of the game is not that bad up there. Maybe, it was an optical illusion caused by lack of oxygen.

During my descent, I stumbled across a queue-less snack stand and returned to my comfy executive seat with a piping hot and surprisingly tasty spicy chicken pie. I then enjoyed seeing Brian McFadden pull a hamstring and my old mate Chris Evans in left back fall on his arse and let a player through to score. A pie on the terraces at Wembley while watching rubbish football. Wonderful. As I said, it was good to be back.

The Wembley Coliseum

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Amusing news that my dear old, cuddly leperchaun (sic) pal Louis Walsh is writing his autobiography. Note the pay off to the story. The Sun are hoping for serial rights, then.

So, Louis has decided to spike the chapter slagging off Ronan Keating because he has finally blagged him into reforming Boyzone. As is always the case in showbiz, nothing heals old wounds quicker than the sniff of cash. I admit, I’m a little surprised at Ronan. Not more than a year ago, he vented his spleen to me about Louis and seemed certain never speak to the man again.

But it’s commendable to bury grudges – good on them – and to celebrate I think I will do a tie-in release of my own and bring out a bootleg of my interview with Ro’ and link it to the blog. It has some great lyrics, including the unforgettable line “The man’s a fucking bull-shitter.”. You see, it’s important everyone cashes in with a boy band. In fact, I think I might mash my single with the music to ‘Father And Son’. (Idea spark – new lyrics on the way..!)

Anyways, I wish them alldebest, although I think their hopes of replicating Take That’s comeback are wide of the mark. Still, it’s good that Louis is busy once again now that his X-Factor days are over. Just think, all that effort he must be putting in to working out which cover version Boyzone should do first. I’m telling yee, yer man’s a genius.

Bullshitterzone

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In general, I loathe reality TV and avoid it like corked wine, but Comic Relief Does The Apprentice, Part I, was a vintage treat, the sommelier’s pick. It can’t really get much better, so I knocked it back in one heady, happy gulp.

Early on, I nearly had to call for an ambulance, such was the force of my laughter convulsion when I saw the owl-eyed horror in Rupert Everett’s face as he suddenly appreciated the reality of being in a room with Piers Morgan and Alastair Campbell. It was like the world’s fluffiest, most mollycoddled poodle falling from a great height, shaking itself off only to find it had landed in a sealed pen with two ravenous pit bulls salivating upon its arrival.

Rupert complained of lacking dialogue without a screenwriter’s folios, but, really, the sheer, unintentional brilliance of the comedic lines he delivered in those early exchanges beat anything he has ever brought to us on the screen. It was only later, when my wanton cruelty was highlighted by someone less infected with media cynicism, that I had a touch of sympathy for him, the poor, vulnerable, messed up, ex-heroin whacking, tranny-shagging, thesp.

It all got quite embarrassing for most of the cast and looked like being a telly car crash. Our well-meaning celebrities had clearly not considered just how revealing it might be. Almost naturally, they all started behaving like a set of spoilt luvvies, as far removed emotionally from Africa as their Mayfair Hotel penthouse suites were geographically.

The fight-scene was cringe-worthy, but came with a priceless denouement: “Undignified” Trinny’s weepy melt-down. Medication, please. Extra dose. Trinny is clearly a fully paid up member of the Fucked Up Club and as finely balanced as a door with its hinges attached only by the last thread of one screw. Sobbing over being called undignified? Do a day in a newsroom, luv, and you’ll take that as high praise. And then there was Cheryl Tweedy-Cole, who doesn’t eat fish “anyways”, but has a brain like one.

The undoubted star of the show had to be Morgan, the “Human Dick On Legs” (Copyright: Maureen Lipman). As a (say it quietly) long-time friend of the celebrated chronicler of badly recalled memories, I am use to dispatching lacklustre reviews to him for his television appearances. But this was probably Morgan’s finest TV hour. (Well, obviously, there are degrees of “fine”, as we will soon discover with “Britain’s Got Talent”.)

Always unsparingly competitive and enthusiastic, Morgan was up for the task from the off. He got stuck in, grafted and made the boys tick. Although that didn’t it add up to much, cash-wise. He doesn’t give a stuff about the egos of his fellow stars and gladly baits them. Fair play to him for all of that. Best of all, he got stuck into Campbell, a haunted stress ball who was trying so hard to appear contained and in control that he looked close to self-combustion. Apparently, their face-to-face combat hits ferocious levels tonight.

Well, it took a problem as big as Africa to give Morgan’s television career some warmth and humour. I only hope he made a sizeable contribution to Comic Relief. As for Rupert Everett – the Hollywood star who hates cameras and doesn’t know anyone – I’m not sure his career, lofty coolness, or A-list standing will ever be quite the same. Poor dear.

Comic Relief Does The Apprentice

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This is probably not going to mean much to most of you …

During a mid-week, pre-recycling collection day, high-speed flip through of my weekend newspaper supplements – a lazy reading timescale only available in hackland to those without desks to answer to or PAYE to collect – I contentedly nibbled, as always, on AA Gill’s Table Talk.

In his piece about Awana, he writes amusingly about taking a pee and I couldn’t help but recall the moment when the great man, he of pulchritudinous prose, goitred with soliped leitmotifs, crenellation and spittle, took one next to mee.

Now, don’t go thinking that AA is near the top of my all time best “Who took a piss next to you?” list, or anything, but it was a stand out (ooer) moment in the incalculable history of pissing moments. There I was, at Stamford Bridge at half time – must be three-plus years ago now – and he took up position at the bowl next to me. Gave me quite a fright. No, not that, just him, being so near, in a donkey jacket, chewing gum speedily, open-mouthed.

And, you know what, afterwards he didn’t wash his hands! Now, I can forgive any man for not washing his hands at a football stadium loo. Touch only what belongs to you in such a hub of effluvia, although, out of habit I managed to catch the end trail of water from an auto tap pressed by someone else, before slipping out the door, also activated by another. But AA strode out with not so much as a glimpse at the sinks and it made me wonder, as you do. So few blokes bother, you see.

Anyway, don’t let this put you off AA. I’m sure he is as rawly scrubbed as a surgeon when he’s at the tables of SW3 and W1. I read his latest book ‘Previous Convictions’ recently and it was excellent. So good in fact that it sent me back to ‘AA Gill Is Away’ which is even better.

It would be wrong of me to end my review of AA in the loo without delivering some degree of criticism. When I was doing the Press Gazette beat last year, I put in several requests for an interview – directly to him through the Sunday Times and also through his publicist at Orion. I have had ‘No’s’ from the best and the busiest of them, and it is never a problem. Letting a hack know the score is all that matters, we move on quickly. But there was never so much as a ‘No Thank You’ from AA or his people’s people.

In my book, that really is taking the piss.

Rating: One Star. AA Spill

AA . . . On The Piss

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So Louis Walsh has been booted off X-Factor by Simon Cowell. At last, a sensible reverse “talent” spotting decision. How on earth did it take so long? If only ITV had put the eviction to a phone line vote, it would have made a fortune without any complaints.

And Kate Thornton has gone, too, although I can’t think what else she could have done to present it better. Anyway, only one more person to go – Shazza – and X-Factor might even be watchable.

Ah, Louis, so many happy memories …

Xit Louis. See ya.

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And, so, to the art world and last night’s private view for Marcel Dzama’s new work at Timothy Taylor’s gallery in Mayfair. Waiters in black Zorro masks greeted me with a choice between a bottle of Peroni and a glass of chilled Petit Chablis. A brash, post-minimalist bar, but evocative and splendidly purist. It spoke to me. Still off the beer, I went for a splash of wine. Very nice, too, I thank you, Timothy, but I’ve got to say, it all went a bit downhill after that.

There’s clearly a buzz and dazzle around Dzama, what with his (group) shows at MoMA, but on the evidence of last night it is a wonder to me how this Canadian is generating such attention – and prices. Now, I’m all in favour and praise of people who express their creativity. Bravo to them. I can’t speak for Dzama’s previous work – which may well be amazing, visionary, cutting edge, it may even be good – but this show was thin, to say the least. Less than a Size 0. In fact, if you had phoned up ITV to vote for this exhibition, you would rightly claim you had been short-changed.

The work derives from a 30 minute film (art show screenings only, not yer local multiplex) Dzama made a while back called The Lotus Eaters. It includes images of characters, many in Zorro masks with black beaked noses, sitting on dead tree trunks. You know, I can barely recall a clear image this morning, such was the lasting resonance of his faces. They looked like the rejected off-cuts on a cartoonist’s studio floor.

Also on display were some furry costume heads from Dzama’s “film”. I have seen more dramatic and better constructed models made by 10 year olds with papier mache and ping-pong balls. But, here in Mayfair with beer and wine, these heads and pictures are art, and fairly expensive art at that. One gallery sales person, visibly twitching with glee, told me that most were already sold. The small, unappealing water colours were $10-15,000 a shot and one medium-size montage was $45,000. Average-to-low pricing in this genre and I would have got one or two for the hell of collecting, but I didn’t have any change on me.

The information sheet handed out last night explained Dzama’s talent and inspiration thus: “The long, dark, cold Winnipeg winters meant that Marcel spent a lot of time inside drawing a dystopian world inhabited by femmes fatale, bats, bears, cowboys and superheroes.” Hmm, I stayed in a lot drawing when it shanked down in Bromley when I was a kid. But when does childhood cartooning become art? When an art dealer tells his people, that’s when.

Now, I’ve been to countless private views in the past few years and I’ve done all the main London art shows, and, well, the whole shebang leaves me ever more puzzled. The big fairs seem to be little more than a free-drink fest, with hoards of liggers staggering around in a fug of cheap, New World chardonnay or shiraz looking with ever deteriorating eye-sight at works of questionable quality and depth, let alone basic intrigue or beauty. The contemporary art world is thriving like never before and is awash with money and product. Of course, it is not all bad, but why such continuing hype about so little?

Well, here’s a thing. I completed my first painting on canvas last weekend. It was an oddly rewarding experience, especially as it began with a definite twinge of panic and artist’s angst when I first stared at the blank canvas. I suddenly connected with all the grand Masters who had hunched over an easel before me. We were one.

But it’s not that hard, you know. A short while later I had produced a picture that is a compelling, poignant and painful depiction of personal suffering and 21st century alienation. Or, indeed, it could also be a quite colourful abstract miniature with a circle and some blocks.

I’m thinking of exhibiting my solitary picture here, then you can all decide. The price? Let’s leave that to the dealers…

Marcel Dzama: Le Review

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Well, I can faithfully report that there was some very healthy and, ahem, robust debating at the Press Association HQ in London yesterday at the final stages of judging for the British Press Awards. Certainly, in my two categories – Scoop and Interviewer – we were all able to absolutely agree on one thing: the quality of all the entrants. There you go, some nice, super-safe, inter-industry puff for you.

But, in all seriousness, an extremely fine thread exists in all categories between the best and the next best when you get down to the short-short list, as was the case yesterday. Like all other judges, I don’t know the final out-come for any of the awards. But I am certain that there will be some cheers as well as some jeers – hopefully, gracefully muted – when everyone convenes at the Grosvenor House on 26th March.

I am confident that there will be no decision that cannot be straightened out between opposing sides by pointing champagne flutes at five paces…

We’re all winners! Yeah, right.

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Well, not the easiest of weeks in my Island life, it has to be said. It has sped by in a blur of enthusiastic hustling, idea pitching, planning, talking, stalking, waiting. All part of riding the freelancing beast.

My eyes are red and watery from staring at this screen and it feels like a jagged chunk of metal is stuck in the right side of my neck. All I want now is a slow, deep massage in a hot climate followed by a cold, colourful cocktail with an orange sunset to gaze at. Oh, well, I’ll have to settle for a workout, a sauna and a pint in the local. The only trouble being that I have given up beer for Lent. As if life isn’t fucking hard enough.

Anyway, I haven’t stopped by to grumble. Plenty of things have gone right this week and it has drawn to a close on a pleasant note, which got me thinking. Always dangerous.

I received my first statement for the “Sally” cards today, which came as something of a shock, to put it mildly. As someone familiar with the accounting systems of newspapers, magazines and book publishers, I am used to, at best, chasing my money for several months, or – as is the case with books – waiting a year or more while some bastard in accounts works out every algebraic permutation that means the company keeps my royalties.

Amazingly, this is not the case in the card business. No. At the end of each month, they – the distributor Peartree Heybridge – have the bloody cheek to tell me, very simply, how many cards they have sold and then pay me my cut. Quite extraordinary. The Sally cards have been out for just three weeks and she has already sold 3,332. By my mathematically backward mind, that’s a touch over 3K a week. I’m not saying I am in for a fortune, but it is a healthy beginning from a standing start. Who knows…

Now, I have long thought that the accounting systems in the newspaper and publishing businesses are archaic – and that’s me being polite. Newspapers generally pay monthly plus a week, if you are lucky, but you usually miss a month’s pay run so you wait two. In the days of computers, why can’t they start trying to pay the day after publication, or upon invoicing, or weekly? But, come on, why would they?

It is the publishing business, however, that takes the Garrick’s butter soaked shortbread. It pays twice a year based on a system that is stuck in the days when books were printed with hot metal and delivered by steam trains and steaming horses. This insane, appalling system is an insult to authors worldwide and weighted in the favour of publishers to suit their cash flow. But these companies are book creators, not glorified banks designed to hold onto hard earned royalties. They have fancy computers and EPOS systems, so they know who sold what, when and for how much. Why the wait?

Authors unite, start a revolution and make them pay quicker. Because, if the high volume, low margin, card business can cough up right away, then why the hell can’t all the others pay?

Ok, I know, I’m dreaming. It’s been a long week. Adieu.

Sum ******* Week!

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Hmmm, schadenfreude, an ugly, self-defeating emotion that saps the purity from one’s own soul. Resist it, beat it back at all times and you shall live a healthier, more fulfilled life. A wise person told me that with a gentle smile when I was younger.

The trouble is, I have one recurring subject that is defeating all that worthy anti-schadenfreude philosophy: The London 2012 Olympics.

I saw the headline on the front of the Evening Standard yesterday screaming that the Games could now cost up to £10 billion and I felt a strange, unwanted flutter of joy. How bizarre, why on earth should I feel like that?

I am actually a moderate supporter of the Games and believe in their positive effects for the country. I get all emotional – a little absurdly at times, it has to be said – watching people win in sport generally, especially during the Olympics. So, deep down, I want London 2012 to be a huge success.

The thing is, every time I see a bad headline about 2012 I think of the day last October when I interviewed Lord Seb Coe. The resulting piece was widely read within media circles and became quite popular, not least because I drew attention to the unwanted attendance of Jackie Brock-Doyle, Seb’s Director of Communications, during the interview.

Seb and Jackie made unnecessarily heavy weather of what should have been a straight forward interview. I wasn’t there to stitch anyone up, but she behaved ridiculously and it bounced badly for them.

Now, whenever I read about another set back for 2012, I get this vision of Seb and Jackie, up there in their skyscraper glass office, with the British media throwing stones at them. And I think, Ahhh, it couldn’t happen to a nicer couple.

As I said, schadenfreude, is a terrible thing. But we all have our weaknesses.

10 Billion Bad Headlines

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Fresh from my dispiriting flight of fantasy to the Oscars, I bring you a more earthly trophy polishing event: The British Press Awards.

I have the honour – and I genuinely mean that, folks, in the most unshowbizzy fashion – of being a judge again in these awards. The shortlist of entrants has just been announced on the Press Gazette website.

For the past couple of weeks I have been judging the submissions from the long-list of entrants for two categories – Interviewer of the Year and Scoop of the Year. It is a testing and time consuming task, and one that I conduct with a considerable sense of responsibilty and pressure, as well as pride.

The work that is produced by the nation’s hacks is quite awe-inspiring. I have been a journalist for 22 years now – I’ve got the neck ache and thinning knuckle cartilage to prove it – and all except one year has been spent writing for the national newspapers. It is a career that is as rewarding as it is exasperating.

But, it is when you get a chance to really examine, professionally, impartially, what is achieved day-in, day-out across our newspapers that you really see the broad and brilliant talent that blesses our rags.

Steady on, mate. I really mustn’t turn this into a complete kiss-kiss love-in. Any hack worth a round of drinks would take the piss and suspect I was angling for an extra drink at the Grosvenor. All I want to say is this:

On Scoops: the newspapers of this country produce more stories than anywhere else in the world. These stories set the agendas of TV and radio stations, magazines and websites in every corner of the planet. They ALL feed off us. Collectively, our newspapers are amazing.

On Interviewing: I know a lot about this beat. I’ve done it for virtually my entire career and I can tell you that it is often a labour-intensive, up-at-dawn, pride-swallowing siege (if I may bastardise a movie line). The quality of the content and prose in this year’s long-list entrants (30 of ’em) was exceptional. Only five writers make it to next week’s second round of judging.

But why on earth am I bothering to say this? Er, not sure really, except to maybe poke the ribs of the clueless, spoilt cynics, often the casual readers, who pick up a newspaper and too easily slag off the devoted work of the journalists who made it all happen.

Journalism is a tough career and one that is hardly well paid. These awards are a worthy reminder of the incredible work that is achieved each year in this business. Bravo to all those entrants.

All that said, mine’s a large one. I thenk you!

The British Press Awards

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Well, another year gone and another bloody speech I didn’t get to make at the bloody Oscars.

I don’t know, it’s all a tad irritating, isn’t it? I mean, how many ceremonies have I got left in me? You know, some of the key people I need to thank might be among the departed if I faff around much longer.

Let’s face it, my own personal little screenplay – my, y’know, “jooourney” – is actually unreeling in a very UN-Hollywood way. I should have been up there – F-A-C-T – years ago. People say that my dear pal from the neighborhood Marty (Legendary director Martin Scorsese to you lot) – has waited too long, that it was his turn, his night. Well, screw that, you muthas. What about ME? Where’s my little friggin’ gold man and goodie bag of diamonds?

To cap my disappointment, I’ve just read an acceptance speech online in MY category only to discover that some nobody bloke from Nowheresville has only gone and nicked the name of my lead character. Hmmm. There’s only so much I shall take.

OK, enough. I’ll take a chill pill, rise above it all. The Oscars, what a hoot. I feel obliged to stop by, blog-style, and acknowledge “the most glamorous night in the whole-wide-world”. I only dipped in with an hour – OK, OK, I’ll admit to two – on the “E” Channel. I was expecting to see that insufferable idiot Ruby Twatx presenting. Yes, she with the poorly pirated copy of a sense of humour. Imagine my relief to see she wasn’t there – I was able to remove the iron grill I always put across the screen when she is on to deflect the bottles of Bud – so I stayed. Ryan Wotshisname from American Idol was very good. The right pitch. And that gazing gay guy (or as Hero of the Hour Marty would label, “that fockin’ faggot” – a disgusting term I would never validate) was mesmerizing. It was like watching a fully camped up, 21st Century, politically corrected Action Man having his voice cord pulled every once in a while. His occasional side-kick was a bag of bones in a red dress hoping to grow up one day to be a Size 0.

Anyway, I’ve gotta dash, I have parties to go to. I have decided to give it all a wide berth next year. As any self-respecting, lying celebrity will tell you, it is all trivial nonsense … until of course you are nominated. Yes, I’m staying away, like Sean Penn. He boldly said, “The Oscars? I’d be embarrassed to be there.” Until of course, he totally milked his standing ovation for Mystic River a few years later. Cooool.

Right, back to my speech … am I out of time? Can I just say a few Thank Yous? Pleeease. Most of all, I’d like to thank the one person who has stood by me through all the years of struggle blogging about the speech I didn’t get to make about the book that didn’t get published and then didn’t get made into that great movie starring…

Blub-bloody-blub.

And the Oscar doesn’t BLOODY go to …

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It has been a long, thankless and quite brutal week in my world of interviewing. I hit a red light, next to a giant Stop sign in a cul de sac that ended with a 1,000ft sheer drop. I will spare you the details – for now – but I can speak from years of experience, not just the past few days, to deeply sympathise with John Humphrys this morning.

His much yearned-for and keenly plugged face-to-face with Prime Minister Tony Blair on Radio 4’s Today programme has just faded from the hi-fi in my office. To be honest, I nearly didn’t make it through, despite Humphrys sterling efforts. The reason: I found the entire talk annoying, frustrating, predictably fruitless. It wound me UP!

You need a fighting chance with any subject to get a decent interview, no matter your skill. Few are better at it than Humphrys. But if a subject is interminably dull, like the “superstar” who defeated me this week, or impossibly intransigent, like Blair, then you haven’t got a hope in hell. No amount of guile or charm will work. No killer question will provide an answer worth hearing. Either there ain’t nothin’ to get, or they ain’t got nothin’ to give.

So, let me put this to you, if I may, in the clearest of terms: What really is the fucking point in interviewing Tony Blair?

Let me put this to you…

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I stand accused of wasting an hour and a half of my life last night watching BBC2’s The Verdict. I hang my head in shame and plead guilty and ask for countless other similar telly violations of my freedom to be taken into consideration. My sentence? To watch the remaining episodes of this absurdly enjoyable tripe.

I missed the opening up of this “case”, so I’m slightly off the pace, but that hasn’t hindered me from easing into the role of a hang ’em high judge and jury. In fact, I couldn’t give a bowl of salty porridge about the blokes in the dock, or the weepers in witess box. No, naturally, I’m judging all the celebrities. They’re all in the dock here, of course that’s what this is about – it’s a reality show with a stocking over its grubby little face as a disguise. And I know for certain they are all GUILTY.

Yep, guilty, I say. First up is chuffing Ingrid Tarrant. She is guilty of suddenly making me feel empathy with Chris for going AWOL in his marriage. Next is Jennifer Wotshername-like for giving further incontrovertible evidence – recently displayed by Danielle Windyarse-like from CBB – that the scouse accent is the most tikcth (sic: thick) sounding and irritating in Britain. Then there is the ex-soap Ginga, up on charges of continuing to impersonate a bad EastEnders character. Her claim that she is just a Patsy is inadmissable.

Then there’s the bloke from Blur – Alex James – who looks like he is a few glugs away from rehab’. (Apologies if he is actually in recovery). I interviewed Collymore and Archer last year, so I know their form. Therefore, I convict them both without a pause for breath. Well, let’s face it, Collymore is always upto no good and Archer is always guilty. Who have I missed? Oh, yes, Jacqueline Gold. She is so quiet I think she must have been winded by sitting on an oversize Rampant Rabbit. Then we have old rubber nose, bloaty-face Michael Portillo. He is guilty of making me think that he is actually half-sensible, such is the company he keeps. There are a few others who are simply guilty of table manners affray and for consuming stolen goods – champagne and lorry-loads of food – all proven to be owned by hard-up Licence Payers.

But the main culprit in The Verdict so far is Megaman – or MegaChippyMan. He is exercising his right to remain silent with a violent stare. He has brought a stack of pre-conceived ideas, personal issues and prejudices into the jury room and dat ain’t allowed, man. His main crime, however, is being caught in possession of an over-loaded, dangerous wardrobe, including diamonte studded CK sunglasses worn with no sense of embarrassment in a darkened dining room. He stands accused of using this wardrobe with malicious intent to pass off as a successful gangsta rapper.

Everyone in this show keeps saying – “You’ve got to go on the EVIDENCE”. Well, I’ve seen enough, yer Crusty Old Honour.

Take ’em all down.

My Verdict: GUILTY. The lot of ’em.

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Hmmm. A rare moment to post something of a lighter note, something more up beat. You know, that’s the trouble with this blogging gig, it is all too easy and obvious for it to simply become a whinge machine, a place to vent thy spleen. It’s a shame really because you just end up sounding like – and feeling like – an angry old grouch, that nothing is all that good, when indeed most of the time you really do look on the brighter side…

News that The Police are reforming to tour again brought back a happy memory. My first concert was to see them. I’ve just had to check the actual date – I’m not a spod for things like that. (Two clicks and I found that date. Still amazing, isn’t it?) So, on the 22nd December 1979, I saw Sting and the other two at Lewisham Odeon. The concert was a major treat after one of my sisters – Ali – had queued from 5am at Capital Radio and swapped some toys for some tickets. I think it must have been the earliest days of Help A London Child.

When I was picked up from boarding school for the Christmas holidays and told by her that I was going to see The Police, well, that moment of elation is still a freeze frame in my head. A real, grown up concert. I was 14. OK, I have no doubt there are better, more dangerous, rarer “first concert” anecdotes, but for me it was, Wow.

My singular lasting image of that night – incredible that only one survives – is Sting singing Roxanne. We had good seats, central, me standing on mine. When he hit the chorus the entire theatre lit up red. And there was Sting, immersed in this red glow. Hell, I wanted to be a rock star.

I’ve just flipped through a normally detailed diary from 1979 – a diary was the spleen venting equivalent of a blog during boarding school – and I’m a little gutted to find no entry for 22nd December. You see, I was too busy having fun to write. (Now there’s a lesson!) But on the 23rd there’s a couple of lines, asterixed from after Christmas detailing presents received etc. It says: “I bought a really nice pair of black Pointed shoes with the money grandad gave me. With wooden heel, leather soles and leather uppers”.

I may have just seen The Police, but what I didn’t know then was that becoming a semi-Mod and seeing The Jam at The Rainbow awaited…

The Police

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Now, don’t get me started….

I am typing with trembling hands and gritted teeth as I try to calm an all-consuming impotent rage.

This is the final week of life as I and countless thousands of others know it in West London. The countdown is ticking before the man whose name I can only snarl – lying, sneering Ken Livingston – lets loose his latest con to cause mass-scale disruption and frustration to everyday folk doing their best to get on in this unforgiving city. I am referring, of course, to the Western CON-gestion Charge Extension Zone.

I don’t know what to do with my anger, so all I am left with is to spit a few pitiful pars into the ether. Quietly, in my head, I want to start a revolution, inspire the mob to destroy the cameras and bring this imminent fiasco to an abrupt end, but how can you do that? I have been on the marches, written the letters, filled out the questionnaires. Nada. No-one, least of all, King Ken Con, could give a flying toss. It is all about to happen, despite the opposition and agreed wisdom that it is pure folly.

The thing is, I am actually on the upside of this mess. I live inside the zone – you know, in “rich” Chelsea – so I will get the 90% residents discount. I am lucky. So, what are you complaining about, I hear you ask? Ugh! Just everything about this scheme’s appalling undemocratic implementation. Then there is the physical and psychological stuff – those ugly, sinister cameras that have gone up all over the borough, about to watch you, take your picture, monitor your life; those big fat ugly red “C’s” burnt into the roads; the big ugly red warning signs drilled into the pavements; the big fat ugly queues of cars that will squeeze into the few side streets available to escape the charge; then the big fat ugly car park that will soon be on the few roads looping the zone. All because Ken Con said it should be so. How I loathe his power.

I feel exasperated that yet more expensive bureaucracy is about to blight my life. The days when I could pop up in the car to my bank on the Kings Road, the shoe shop, or the library with only the traffic and the lottery of finding a parking space to worry about are gone. Now I will have to be organised and pay the charge in advance, or remember to pay it later. How many times will I forget and cop a hefty fine? And because I live right by the no-charge loop, it will take me forever to get past the seething, desperate souls trying to avoid the eight quid charge. Arghh. As if life isn’t irritating enough.

Hell, it pisses me off. Oh, and one more thing. You know the 90% discount us residents get? Well, that’s a lie, too. They won’t let you pay 80p to go into the zone once. Oh, no, they say it’s not possible to account for such a small sum. It’s not viable. Huh, and this from a company that can photograph and bill thousands upon thousands of cars in the blink of an eye. No, us residents, have to buy five day’s worth at £4 quid.

Well, I don’t want drive into the zone every day, so my quick trip up the road will now cost four quid and some planning and care just so I don’t screw up. Handy, all that. ******* *****.

To be bloody continued…

King Ken Con

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Well, two long years and three months after I had a simple idea to bring out a quick range of greetings cards, they are here. May I introduce… SALLY!

So, who is Sally and what does she do? Well, she’s a free-spirited young woman who approaches the challenges of life with unbridled enthusiasm, but all too often things don’t work out the way she had hoped. Nevertheless, she deals with it all with her own special brand of irreverent humour. In some way, I hope that Sally echoes what women really think. (Not that I would profess to have any special insight into that particular science).

Generally, I find the cards on the market a bit dull, old hat or plain stupid. And often they are unnecessarily cynical. Call me over-sensitive, but have you seen those ranges where they use old black and white photos of people – someone’s loved one, long since dead – and simply add a nasty, cynical caption? They piss me OFF!

Well, it’s good to get that out of my system. Moving on. I hope that Sally is a welcome and fun addition to the cards shops. They have been launched to the trade during the Spring Fair at the Birmingham NEC over the last few days and the feedback has been very good. So, Sally should be in a card shop near you soon.

Sorry, I must dash, I have Disney on the phone wanting to talk about the movie rights to Sally …

[Drum roll] May I introduce … SALLY!

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Louis Theroux has been away from TV for a while. I’ve not missed him. He kicked off his new series of BBC2 documentaries with a trip to Las Vegas last night and the publicity suckered me in. After a long break from TV, with the whole world and its nutcases at the mercy of his lens, he goes there. Genius producing. Can you imagine the planning meetings that went into that? Series Producer: “Hey, the Hilton are offering us a freebie to Vegas for a few on-screen plugs, let’s go, do the strip see some strippers.” Louis: “Errrm. Yeah. Well. Hmmm. Yeah.”

But, hey, no matter the jam-packed travel library in existence on Vegas – all made possible with contra-deal kick backs – it is so full of madness and characters that any hack with a camcorder and a decent eye for a story should come up with some entertaining footage and interviews. But not Louis. He couldn’t interview a Martian and get a story if one tugged on his baggy sweater.

For this show, Louis followed a few hapless gamblers and showed them to be hopeless losers. Gosh, sad gamblers found in Vegas, they lose money. I was staggered. Then Louis played the tables himself – twice. Original, imaginative. In terms of creativity, this show was tantamount to going on a junket to Vegas and staying at the airport to play the first 25 cent slot machine you see, then coming home.

If this loser of a show was the lead doc in the series, I doubt I will gamble any more time on Louis. He has no basic sense of how to ask questions or develop an interview with any depth. And once you are bored of his limp, whimpering delivery, and over-played laid back approach – if indeed you ever liked it – there is nowhere to go. I’ve always felt he was over-rated.

Loseur Theroux

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Apologies for my blogging absence but I have been in rehab’. I had been acting a bit stupid lately, you know, gobbing off at people, seeking publicity, so my manager checked me into the Priory for an obnoxiousness detox and a nice new sheen on my image. I’ve gotta say, for fifteen grand it was a bargain. Watch out for the new me next week on all the comfy daytime TV sofas. And also on 18DS on Monday evening.

Rehab’d

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So, Jade Goody has received serious shock treatment for her acute bullying and racism symptons. It was delivered homeopathically – the medical philosophy of treating “like-with-like” – so she got severely bullied by the rest of the world and its media. And me. I’m sure it was richly deserved, but anyone who is genuinely against bullying must have winced at the sight of her falling apart beneath the nation’s glare and glee. She cut a pitiful figure during the Davina McCall interview, no matter how soft it was. The News of the World Q&A interview was also toe-curling in its pleading. But the video footage of that interview, played constantly on Sky, digital was excruciating and sad. She sobbed her heart out. It was like watching a five year old, who had been told off beyond all proportion to her deed, hyperventilating her way into a desperate frenzy to say sorry. Please, enough apologies, although I think that was only the beginning. Any continued Jade witch-hunt would obviously be absurd and unfair. She has had a tough enough kicking. I can’t help thinking that the experience might even be good for her in the long run. You know, in a personal development kind of way, but who knows. I won’t hold my breath.

Oh, to be a fly on the wall in her agent John Noel’s office these past days. (Take a look at the intro to that website). It would be fascinating to hear the discussions and ideas being floated to re-boot the Jade “brand”. I bet Noel has never worked harder for his 20%. It was reported yesterday that Jade could fly to India next week, although apparently her visa application is on hold and being discussed at the “highest levels”. I pray to the big, racially neutral and politically correct poppadom god in the sky that the trip goes ahead. It could provide some of the most unintentionally funny copy, photo shoots and headlines of any envoy mission from the British Empire. As Jade is greeted by an angry mob (well, five bemused passers-by and 200 journalists), I think the papers will have a field day, from the red tops involved in the big money (all to charity, mind) buy-up, to the serious diplomatic writers of the heavies. What chance The Sun will come up with something along the lines of “Jade Tikka-d Off By India”?

The D-Star Of India

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URGENT PERSONAL PUBLICITY WARNING. Please be aware that the following blog features a Blatant Plug for a product created by and owned by me with the sole intention to begin promoting it herewith. In the world of journalism and PR, this would be described as “pre-publicity” because the products are not even out yet. Please do not read on if you are easily offended by bare-faced publicity that is not masked by someone pretending to talk about something else while holding up a CD, a book, or reciting the booking number for a theatre. What follows is unrefined, arm-over-the-shoulder, self-back-slapping publicity.

I have just got the first retail order for ‘SALLY’, my first and utterly brilliant greeting card range. It has come from the equally brilliant card shop chain Paper Passions which will display these delightfully wry and irreverently amusing cards at its Kings Road branch and other London outlets. Considering that Paper Passions is the first shop I have approached, I am delighted to report a 100% success rate. I am mildly excited, which is an emotion I keep to a minimum in moments of baseless optimism. ‘Sally’ will become a global brand (no irony intended) soon after she is officially launched at the utterly brilliant Spring Fair trade show at Birmingham’s NEC on 3rd February.

Talking exclusively to his own tape recorder, Rob McGibbon garbled: “I am delighted to be successfully aligned with such an iconic – if, as yet unknown – creation as ‘Sally’ and fully believe that in Paper Passions we have found genuine cross-fertilised synchronicity with oceans of blue sky ahead of us for this venture. Most of all I would like to thank…” Drrrrrrrrrrrr. LOW BATT.

Sally Cards Plug

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Apologies for my absence, but I’ve been upto my elbows in the silt of my life while clearing out my loft. Heck, the things one keeps and what a bizarre high-speed slide show it is, going through the fragments of your yesteryears. But that subject is for another day. I simply need to quickly blog by on the big bother at Big Brother.

I have traditionally hated BB. I don’t watch it, apart from the odd dip in, like watching my old friend (well, 53!) Carole Malone make her dignified exit. But generally, I don’t watch because I don’t like the way BB makes me feel; it’s all that voyeurism, all those posers, idiots, and all that boredom. I get enough of that interviewing celebrities, so I choose to slump in front of equally crass TV on the other channels.

But as of last night, I’m now in da House, sadly hooked. The publicity about the race row suckered me in like a Two-For-One sticker in a supermarket. After watching an early screening of The Last King of Scotland (a tour de force from Forest Whitaker) I got home quickly because BB was in my mind. Not a nice feeling. I flicked on the TV and hit the moment it all kicked off. Most fans have spent countless hours scavenging for little highs from this series, but I suddenly main-lined neat reality TV heroin. It made me feel instantly sick. Seriously, it disturbed me.

Jade Goody is a snarling, foul-mouthed, tragically ignorant bitch, of that there is no doubt. I thought that long before last night. Honestly. I have been appalled by the heights of fame, media coverage and financial success she has been awarded. Er, for WHAT? Now, I believe, all that has gone for her. Oh, goody. Her true colours – blue aired and misty red with bilious rage – have been shown. The lovable, daft clown is really a volatile, vindictive vixen with deep-rooted bitterness in her veins and an enormous chip on her shoulder. She is a big, bad bully. And, yes, I believe she is racist, whether overtly or covertly. Her line of racism is probably based on pig ignorance, rather than the seething hate you see in a tattooed skinhead gobbing his way down Welling high street. What perfume manufacturer, TV production company, or any other product would want to be associated with Jade now? (That said, she might get the Iceland telly ad contract from the belching drug-mum Kerry Katona. They’re clearly not fussy.) The newspapers will love her until she has done her exit buy up, and she’ll get another book deal, but little else.

There will be a certain poetic justice if this is indeed the end of the Jade show. Live by the plastic vanity sword of reality TV fame, then die by it. I have little sympathy, but I do feel distinctly uncomfortable at the prospect of the world watching her unravel even more in the programmes ahead. She may be a veteran of the House but she must be unaware of the scale of the outrage focused on her. How can she be allowed to continue on this racist collision course? Big Brother must step in, illuminate her ways and give her the chance to save herself, although I doubt she has the brain or maturity to undo what has been done.

Watching Jade’s assault on Shilpa made me shudder and squirm. She was scary, unhinged, but the people I felt a real loathing for were her sniggering co-bitches Jo and Danielle. They are the worst type, the cowardly stirrers beside the bullies, mixing it from the sidelines, vicariously soaking up the thrill of confrontation without personal risk. Looking at those three girls, I felt a real sadness. They are products of the swearing, liquor swilling ladette explosion of the ‘90s and what a sorry sight they are. Devoid of intelligence, compassion and culture, they are the templates of the vacuous, Me-Me, gimme everything for nothing generation that haunts Britain’s youth. How on earth are they going to feel when they see their behaviour? The prospect of these vain little creatures, with their bolser wood characters, coming out to the baying crowd hardly bears thinking about. But maybe their ilk will be in the majority and they will be cheered. God help us if they are. Whatever happens it will be compulsive – and uncomfortable – viewing.

I feel slightly ashamed that I will now almost certainly be tuning in to Big Brother. Am I just standing in the playground circle with the other kids shouting, Fight, fight, fight? Maybe, but not exactly. My excuse is that this is now part of a wider debate and news story and I am a journalist. I believe that Jade and Big Brother have inadvertently revealed a dark and powerful heart of racism that beats silently, but ever more strongly, across Britain today.

Personally, I hope that I will be watching the end of Jade Goody’s ill-gotten fame some time very soon, but, most of all, I hope we will also be seeing the death throes of Big Brother and its perverse, spiteful sport.

One thing is for sure – I think the time is now right to sell off a piece of memorabilia I came across while clearing out my loft. I found the original Channel 4 press pack from the opening day of the first Big Brother house. I walked through that building in 2000 and wondered what on earth this programme would be like. I didn’t much like the idea of it then, and I have hated it since. Rev-up the bulldozers. And Ebay here I come!

Big Bother

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Yaaawn. Stretch. Creak. Squint. Re-focus. Hello.

So, that was Christmas. What did I do?
Another year over.
Oh no! A new one just begun.

I haven’t got my blogging head fully back on just yet, but I felt I should stop by and, you know, wish everyone I don’t really know a “Happy New Year”, whatever that actually means. Consider it mass-market PR, blog-style.

I for one am feeling genuinely positive about 2007. Purely on a personal level, I am expecting powerful, transformative shifts in every aspect of my life. I will be fitter and healthier than ever, professionally more successful and fulfilled, emotionally and romantically blessed. Yes, I am annoyingly bouncy with watery-eyed optimism for the future. I even have happy hopes for the world.

Ask me again in a week.

‘ello 2007

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Time for some serious product placement: Le Grand Hotel, Paris. Go and stay there. I spent a few nights with the Artist there recently and it was, well, magnifique. I needed to be there, as opposed to any other hotel, to do some top-up research for a book I am currently re-igniting. Certain key scenes happened there in 1914. Oh, the wilful intrigue of my vagueness.

Le Grand is a big hotel and part of the Intercontinental Hotels Group. It might not be everyone’s idea of a romantic Parisian bolthole. There are plenty of bijoux hotels in the 6th, but I always feel a bit uncomfortable in places of limited staffing – you know, when the same face pops up in different areas of the hotel, or the worn out Monsieur on the front desk knows too much about your movements. I need the freedom of anonymity you get in a big hotel to help me switch off.

If you are looking for immaculate, yet understated five star service that is devoid of stuffiness, then you will struggle to do better than Le Grand. The IHG group are currently on a mission to offer a more chilled out first class service across all their hotels. It works here already. The hotel, which is one of the oldest large hotels in Paris, had a major re-fit in 2002, so it is finely spruced throughout. Our room was luxurious and overlooked the Opera House. Recent modern additions to the hotel include a small, but perfectly adequate spa. Despite the lush re-furb, the cosmetic traditions of the hotel’s more famous older parts have been preserved. There’s the relaxing Winter Garden central atrium, the exquisite Cafe de la Paix with its ornate splendour (what a place for breakfast) and then there is the devine, gilt-mirrored oval ballroom called the Salon Opera. Take your girl for a private waltz here beneath the giant crystal chandelier. This is where Daniel Craig hosted the post-premiere party for James Bond’s Casino Royale in November, so if you’ve got two left feet she can at least close her eyes and think of him.

So, if you are considering a break in Paris, think of Le Grand. If not to stay, then maybe for a meal, or afteroon tea, or a flute of champagne. Or, indeed, a dance. Feel free to mention my name.

Le Grand Hotel, Paris

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I cursed out loud when I heard about plans to bring in sound sensitive sensors close circuit surveillance cameras. Give us all effing strength, I thought. I am a big hater of the proliferation of cameras. It is nothing short of insidious and reflects the utter disdain with which the dark powers of our country view us all and our civil liberties. If I wanted to be watched everywhere I went, then I’d sign up for a reality show. I have a deep fear as to where it is all going, or, indeed, has already gone. What are we leaving our children? And don’t give me that rubbish defence that cameras stop crime. Were the Ipswich girls protected by being watched by some copper in a watchtower 20 miles away twiddling his joy stick? Or was PC Sharon Beshenivsky, or John Monkton and countless others?

My London borough – Kensington & Chelsea – is currently being legally vandalised with the erection of cameras for the CON-gestion Charge extension which begins in February. Pretty, old, quaint streets are being blighted by these black poles with their sinister little cylindrical eyes. You never ever witness them going up though. I reckon all the work is done over-night, in secret shame.

I will save my full rant about the State sponsored insanity that is this Extension for another time, but for now, I say bring on the Sound Sensor censors. I often walk past a speed camera, or high altitude CCTV lense, or even a bus lane camera, and stick two fingers up to the sky like a demented village idiot. At least the new cameras will get the full value of my venom with the audio because I frequently accompany my pointless salute with the words: “FUCK OFFFFFF!”

Sound Sensors – ******* Censor This!

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A wise internet expert lawyer friend called Mark Lloyd told me ages ago that having a blog was like owning a dog. You have to walk it otherwise it looks miserable and unwell. What can I say, I’ve been busy getting on with life on my island, hence the lack of blogging exercise. Not that I haven’t been thinking about it. In fact, there’s too much to write about and I could happily tap away every day, but there’s only so much writing self-indulgence one should consume. However, here’s a potted round up of vignettes, or soggy, one-bite blog canapes I’ve ben chewing during the past week or so. Think of this as me putting the unfit blog on a lunge and making it sprint a few laps around the office.

THE RAT TRAP: In need of creative solace for various writing ventures that are still in long-term incubation, I headed alone to the Finborough Theatre in Chelsea to witness some actors putting themselves through the mill at the outer limits of the creative world.

Fringe theatre is a sobering leveller for anyone wanting to create something. This is the reality, the kind of place where stuff really begins, once it has exited the painful solitary place of one’s head. The Finborough is a small room above a pub with the audience so close they can feel your breath and see the quiver of your veins. Actors are peeled back to the bone in such places and you cannot fail to admire the hideous, personal excavation work they do when you see them up close at a mini crucible like the Finborough. I can almost forgive some of those mad-as-hatters actors I have interviewed over the years for their vainglorious verbiage when I see what they go through. Almost.

The Rat Trap was written by Noel Coward when he was 18 – yes, 18 – in 1918 but was only put on for 12 performances in 1926. It has been revived by director Tim Luscombe. It is a moving and powerful play which follows the turbulent marriage of two writers, their love shredded by imbalanced success.

Whether this play could carry itself on a bigger stage, I do not know, but I was riveted by this production and the performances across the cast. Most notably, the leads by Catherine Hamilton as thwarted novelist Sheila and Gregory Finnegan as the feted playwright Keld. They were superb. There were just 21 of us in the audience and such was the intensity of one of their argument scenes I felt physically uncomfortable, to the point where I felt a sudden auto-defence release of adrenalin, as if protecting myself from their venom.

So, if you are ever in need of an ice cold sluice of creative water, go along to your local fringe. Watch the actors unravel, marvel at their dedication. It is wonderful, almost inspiring. And it is not very often you smell freshly toasted tea cakes props from the stage, or see the steam from tea, or have the lead actress look you square in the eye and smile as you enthusiastically applaud.

TV ROUND UP. THE X-FACTOR: As expected, the winner was Simon Cowell. To slag off the X-Factor is pretty pointless. It would be like standing up in assembly at an infant school this week and lecturing against the commercialisation of Christmas. I have watched only a few episodes of this series – maybe five or six. If you have known Louis Walsh like I have and could control him with a remote control, you too would hit the Off button. I’ve known Cowell a bit, too, and he’s great, priceless, so I persevere intermittently just to see him.

The discovery of Leona Lewis is quite something and I think Cowell cannot believe his luck. But, as they say, be careful what you wish for. Now we have a brilliant spin-off reality show: PRODUCER X-FACTOR. Has Cowell really got the talent to make Leona a star?

No excuses now. Even Gary Barlow warned him, so he must be in trouble. Everyone acknowledges that this girl is a supreme singer, but what will Cowell do with her? He has some tough decisions ahead – like what cover versions to give her. Judging by the “original” debut single handed to Leona from the show, I fear the worst. Within one listening I was humming my own chorus:

“Some people watched this show for a lifetime,
For a crap song like this…”

EXTINCT: I felt a shudder of disgust when I saw this show unfold after the X-Factor, not least to discover that Zoe Ball’s TV career was not actually extinct. This was a bad start. Flippancy aside, I felt utter revulsion at the prospect of people voting to keep animals alive. I didn’t get past the first ten minutes – I had endangered species to eat at my local illegal steakhouse – so I am sure it had some worthy intentions. But I can’t help worrying about the message this phone and text voting culture sends out to children. OK, it’s fine for the talent contests, but with wildlife? Surely there is something morally wrong here. I can imagine a scene in 50 years time when the last polar bear is found floating face down in an arctic lagoon as warm as the Caribbean and little Leona from Essex – named after the legendary diva – says: “Well, it ain’t my fault they all died. I voted for them in 2006.”

Over a rare silver back gorilla fillet later that night, I went into a state of reality TV excitement. I suddenly imagined a hybrid show of X-Factor and Extinct. It would be called X-STINKS and you could vote for certain living creatures to be extinct. I’m not a reality show voter by nature but I immediately started multi-texting the word LOUIS.

THE SUFFOLK MURDERS: And I thought the Prime Suspect series had ended recently. I admit, at times, I felt quite ashamed at my acute addiction to News 24 and Sky during the past week. However ghoulish, let’s be honest, it was all so appallingly riveting. Sadly, right now, I don’t have the time to examine the macabre reasoning for that in detail, or indeed all the fascinating aspects of the media coverage that this case has thrown up, especially in light of Tom Stephens’ arrest.

However, I must offer up congratulations to the Sunday Mirror and its editor Tina Weaver for their scoop interview with Stephens. It presents a mouth-watering prospect: Tina going round to Andy Coulson’s office at the News of the World to collect his £250,000 reward.

Walk The Blog

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I’ve just flipped through the multi-scented January edition of GQ and alighted on the Cameron Diaz beach photo shoot by Mert Alas and Marcus Piggott. Styled and dyed within an inch of her recogniseable, natural self, she cuts quite a figure in the sand and surf. I only write because I am perplexed by the shot on Page 179 with her in a see-through shirt, the sunlight casting a Ready Brek glow around her right breast. Is it an unwanted truth-telling trick of the light, or a printing error, or is she proudly showing off her boob job scar. Maybe she is very open about all this, I don’t know. Or maybe they simply ran out of puff for the airbrush.

Camera Diaz

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I finally caught up with Casino Royale yesterday. I had some dead time, needed to veg’, and wanted to see it for myself. Call me a victim of hype. Quite what keeps me going back to James Bond all these years on, I don’t know. As with most blokes of my era, my childhood threaded through the Connery/Moore transition. Quite a golden thread to have in your life. But I’m not a Bond-buff with box sets and vintage posters, although I do still have the signed picture from Roger after I visited The Spy Who Loved Me set at Pinewood in, I think, 1976. I saw the submarines, the car, some filming, the lot. And then big Rog, in a black polo neck jumper, smoking a long cigar, came over for a chat. It was quite a day, which easily secured another 20 years of Bond interest.

I thought I was finally over it all after those awful, bouffant Pierce Brosnan vanity walks, but I still went back to see Daniel Craig. Keeping tabs on Bond is a bit like keeping in touch with an old friend, no matter how far the friendship has drifted. Things are nowhere near the same, but it’s good to see how he’s getting on.

And, clearly, Bond is getting on well. It seems churlish to criticise it. I’ve always liked Craig. A fine actor, marvellous in Layer Cake, and yes, he delivers on all the fronts required in Bond – no mean feat, bravo – but doesn’t he pout a lot and sounds so dry-mouthed you want to give him some water. And does anyone else think he over-did the weights and protein? And wasn’t that switch from Venice to the interior set tragically, unbelievably obvious. Who did the lighting there, eh? And, didn’t that card scene go on beyond all belief – what were they playing, group patience? And… oh shut up, it’s a Bond film, it doesn’t matter, it was fine. Thanks to Craig, the “franchise” (highly irritating word) is in good shape and is better stripped back from all the gimmicks. But blimey didn’t it go on? With the amount of blokes piling into the loo afterwards, I thought I was in for a tear up like the scene when Bond-baby gets his double “O” just so I could have a double “P”.

The trouble with Bond is that it has to be everywhere to succeed. Bill-boards, bus shelters, mag covers, newspaper giveaways, TV trailers, making-of documentaries. I’d seen the best bits and was sick of it before I sat in the darkness. Bond marketing is so highly pumped it is as if you are beaten into submission – rather like in a protracted Bond fight scene – until you go. I went to Paris for a weekend with the Artist the other week and Bond had even taken over our hotel – The Grand – for the post-premiere party. It is impossible to get away from it. Craig walked by me, pouting, in a grey suit, and thought, I’d ‘ave him, no bother. I’d have glassed him with my craftily acquired flute of Bolly, then clubbed mercilessly with my steel NHS crtuch.

If there is one thing I have learnt from Bond, it is to be utterly shameless in the pursuit of off-setting costs by blatant product-placement. Hotels, airlines, cars, watches, lap-tops, mobile phones, clothes, they all get blatant banner positioning in the Casino Royale banker. Hence, from now on, I’m going full out for brand connection in my life, so don’t be surprised when you next hear from me that I am sipping a glass of Krug while posting from my 118 Wally powerboat.

If it’s good enough for Bond, it’s good enough for me.

Bond. Plugger Bond.

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Last Friday: The mobile goes while I’m on the M4 without a hands free set (please don’t tell). It’s Press Gazette. I nearly drive across three lanes to the Next Life exit. “But you died,” I say. “I wrote a sad farewell with TS Eliot and everything. I saw the hearse. A voice from beyond the grave, this can’t be so?”

But it was. Tony Loynes and the publishing company called Wilmington started banging on the coffin lid as PG was lowered into the ground and out it lurched. (Best I put us all out of the misery of this death analogy). OK. This company has bought the magazine and plan to publish this week. It is wonderful news, but talk about drama and leaving it all a bit late. I don’t understand. The editor and all the staff have collected their P45s and many of the key contributors have been, well, hacked off, but let’s not go over old ground. It is almost as if Mr Loynes and his team are having to re-launch the magazine from a standing start. Such a scenario seems crazy and unnecessarily difficult.

Mr Loynes wants me to continue the “Press Conference” interviews and we are going to talk again. Who knows how it can pan out for Press Gazette. A ruthless reduction in staffing and costs will help the accounts in the short term, but it will need decent news and features if it is to grow and continue to appeal to the most discerning readership you can imagine. However, it is the very nature of this readership that, in my brilliant opinion, is PG’s greatest asset and hope.

I only managed to blag all those big names to talk to PG because I believed in the unique demographic of the readership. I billed it in various mutations of breathless hyperbole along the lines of “the most powerful magazine readership in the whole world”. Seriously. A stream of PRs, managers and agents, from Tom Cruise’s people down, got the hairdryer treatment from me as to why their client MUST appear in one of the smallest circulation magazines on Earth. I have to laugh when I think of some of the people I tried to get to. The Dalai Lama anyone?! But you can sell something if you genuinely believe in it. And a similar belief is what the new owners need to have.

Press Gazette has something special in its readership, but that readership is disappearing. So, there is a tough task ahead. Now that Wilmington has bought the magazine, they need to SELL it to the media world, so that in turn it will be bought. Only then can it have a healthy and prosperous new life. Welcome back.

Press Gazette Lives!

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I feel obliged to reveal the answer to a minor mystery laid down in the archive of this blog with more cunning suspense than anything Dan Brown could conjure up: the subject(s) of the interview that took me on a Jalfreizi jet to New York and, ultimately, to casualty and a month on crutches. Please carefully put down all fragile objects, the Phew! moment is here. It was Duran Duran.

The interview will run this weekend in the “Live” (as in LIVE each day, not perform LIVE!) magazine supplement of the Mail On Sunday. It was a decent interview – or “talk” as they/we say in the trade, with a good “line (angle) – which is them talking about the sudden departure of guitarist Andy Taylor.

They’re a pretty good bunch to meet. Very normal, gracious, grounded, a laugh. They’ve been there and done it all and got out alive. By “it” I mean everything – the girls, the drugs, the booze, the fame. They are all in their mid-forties now, but they are still doing it – although without the substance support. Good on them. Their energy and indestructible desire for it all is quite remarkable and, no matter your musical taste, their back catalogue is impressive.

I had a drink and a chat with Simon Le Bon at Carina Round’s gig later that day. I reminded him that we had met years earlier – 1992/3’ish, I think. (“Hey, Rob, it’s you! Have you done any good comebacks since then?” Numerous). Naturally, he didn’t remember and I wouldn’t have bothered if we hadn’t met at a slightly memorable event, rather than, say, a quick Hi at a party. No, I met Simon on one of my all-time favourite fantasy writing jobs that turned to mush in the face of cold-stone reality. And I’ve had a few.

Hello! and Autocar magazines asked me if I wanted to cover the inaugral London to Venice race of luxury super cars against the Orient Express. What a gig, yes of course. Imagine it – me, in a Ferrari or an Aston, hurtling across Europe, a babe taking notes for me in the passenger seat. Champagne and a masked Venetian ball on arrival, followed by a chilled out return trip on the Orient Express to rock my hangover away. I’ll murder to do this job.

I turned up at Victoria Station for the gala send off. The train was there in all its romantic Pullman splendour and the cars looked, well, amazing, and I’m not even a petrol head. Consider, if you will, my surprise when the race began and I was still on the platform with my photographer. When the fumes eventually dispersed, we were led to a silver Renault Espace, our home for the next 20-odd hours with other hangers on. Surely some mistake? No. Our vehicle was driven by a chain-smoking lunatic who was having a great time being “involved” in such a glamorous event. I’m not involved in anything, I thought, I’m in a van with you, you nutcase. I’m involved in misery. He insisted on playing Salt ‘n’ Pepper’s ‘Let’s Talk About Sex’ at full blast every time the party mood slackened. I had bus fever before we got past Maidstone.

Anyway, Venice in October was deserted, freezing and wonderful. We made it in time – only bloody JUST! – to attend the big party at the Cipriani. My solo glide across the lagoon on the hotel’s wooden Riva* was worth every fist-clenching, tooth-grinding hour on the road. Well, just about. I remember chatting with Simon that night. He had won the race in a red Diablo and was very happy. He smooched the party away with Yasmin before slipping back to their suite to rest his aching ankles from all that pedal pumping. The Diablo is a tiring drive. Me, on the other hand, had a sleepless night in a twin room in what amounted to a hostel for the homeless with the photographer snoring like a sick pig. Then it was back into the no-Effingspace. Now that’s what I call rock ‘n’ roll.

*Le Bon told me he owns a Riva.

Duran Durankle

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… I’m still slightly fumbling around in the Blogosphere and have just noticed some previous comments with heartfelt sympathies about Press Gazette, as well as some compliments about my efforts. Thank you!

Ta

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And so, to 18 Doughty Street for my web TV debut. Isn’t it amazing how fast things move in this electronic age? It only seems a few keyboard taps ago that I was blogless and clueless of broadband TV’s existence, but now I have more links than a medieval knight in chain mail and a place on this emerging i-station’s new sofa. But what is it like and why would one do it?

Naturally, vanity is always part of anyone’s desire to go on television. Shamelessly, I’ve had a few high-profile ego fluffings over the years – ITN, the GMTV sofa, several celebrity-based compilations on the Beeb and Channel 4. Hear this – I even went on America’s Geraldo Show in the 90’s in front of a whooping New York studio audience and live viewing figures equal to the population of several big countries. But, once the buzz is gone, it’s pretty grim pontificating about the Spice Girls or some celebrity you knew for an hour. I’ve given it all a wide berth for years.

Vanity alone was hardly enough to up-load me onto 18 Doughty Street. At least for now, its viewing figures are tiny, but growing. More than anything, I was fascinated to see it all in motion, to experience a part of this revolution, to wiggle about on a piece of television that exists at the thinnest extremities of the Long Tail. And no matter how few people are watching, live TV is live TV, with cameras, lights, microphones, so it is still a challenge to think on your feet – or on your bum on a sofa with the other stooges. In this case, they were Chicken, Cicero and Boysie (I think we’re on first name terms now).

So, how did I do? No idea, really. There’s something missing in my Safari software on this Mac, so I can’t watch my debut, but I know I enjoyed it, in a bizarre, self-indulgent way. I chipped in on some subjects, expressed some opinions, which is not bad for me. I’ve spent my professional life interviewing people, which requires you shut right up while someone else spouts off, otherwise you spend hours transcribing your unwanted voice. Hence, it was quite a novelty to switch off the enforced mute and have two hours on the stage of fringe theatre live TV. Let’s face it, no mainstream TV station would seek my views on Tony Blair’s apology for slavery, the Litvenenko poisoning, crime by black people, etc. Heck, if I had been listening for the first twenty minutes to the impassioned dispatches from Nick Boys Smith, instead of scanning the titles of biographies on the book shelf and generally looking around, I might even have delivered some instant wisdom on Welfare Reform. That alone might have produced a stunning piece of Colemanball’esque waffle.

As we all sat there, with the dead of night approaching, I couldn’t help but feel we were in a kind of ‘Lost In Translation’ timeless nothingness. I don’t mean that in a negative way, yet we were all talking earnestly, animatedly, about some serious stuff, but to exactly whom and why? Iain Dale’s affable, laid back anchorman delivery added to the virtual vibe, as if it were honed from the Bill Murray school of skilful underplay. Without question, it was fun to be Lost In Broadband at 18 Doughty Street and I wish them every success.

When it was all over, I wondered if my excited emptiness was roughly how the people who did the first television broadcasts felt when much of the world was devoid of TV sets. Did they blink back to reality and tell their friends about this intriguing new communication experience, only to get the reply: “Hmmm. But would you not rather talk to a big audience – like on the wireless?”

Lost In Broadband. 18 Doughty Street: The Review

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As everyone [and no-one knows] Press Gazette passed away around 6pm last Friday. It had been ill for some time and had only been kept alive recently via an unsustainable cash drip. It was a spirited act of CPR by all hands at the end, but finally the big Goodbye Switch had to be flicked. It is sad, but, as with any expected death of something you care for that is in pain, there is also a sense of relief.

PG will always have an affectionate place in my cuttings heart. My early pieces were a fun departure for me and I am happy with most of my interviews of the past year. I’ve just totted up that I did 37. I have the crow’s feet to prove it. Setting up all those interviews was an exasperating, energy-sapping, solo siege, the grim details of which I will spare you. Hence, I shall not miss a moment of that Herculean task, but no regrets here. “Press Conference” was fresh, it worked, and I am pleased about that.

Let’s be brutally honest, though, very few tears are being shed at PG’s demise within the journalistic community (er, is that one of them oxymoron things?!). In general, I wouldn’t say journalists are prone to sentimentality over such things. We have tougher, more immediate things to deal with. It is inescapable that PG failed because people didn’t want to pay for it. Journalists love a freebie, which is why the queue for PG in newspaper offices was always long. I haven’t seen each new edition of a magazine waited for so patiently by so many since, well, boarding school.

I can’t help but think there is a dark, foreboding irony that the newspaper industry’s trade magazine should fold at this time, when the nerves and belief of journalists are being shredded by dramatic changes across the business. Take-overs, sliding circulations, receding ad revenues, cost cuts, death. What could prove to be a metaphor for newspapers across the land has just happened in microcosm with Press Gazette’s hollow death. And it all happened with barely a shrug.

This is the way a trade mag ends,
Not with a bang, but a whimper.

PG R.I.P

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