R.I.P Grasshopper

I have just been kicked with a kung fu level of sadness after discovering that David Carradine has died suddenly.

As a boy growing up in Maidstone, Kent, in the 1970s, I was a big fan of his alternative crime fighting TV show. I loved his coolness and understated ability to kick seven bells out of all the baddies in one go with his bare feet and hands. I remember him breaking legs by kicking cowboys in the knee.

I would often go to sleep at night fantasising about having the ability to dish out his kind of brutal summary jurisdiction against the bullies in my little world. There was no end to the skill of my fast fists and high swinging kicks inside my imagination. I was the hardest nut in Ditton and saved all the girls from no end of distress.

In fact, now I think of it, not a lot has changed. I'm pretty sure I have gone through a few fantasy kicking moves as recently as last night - while I manifested revenge over Monday night's burglar.

If there was ever a guardian angel to have, it would be Carradine. Book him now.

Rest in peace, Grasshopper.

Do bring back the birch, dear boy

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.

Our Prime Minister is TOAST. Let the country move on

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.

Been burgled... watch out for my watch

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.

Venal interviewers should delight in banning Fry

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?

I'll be back when things begin to thaw

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

Quality is now and Donmar

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.

The New Spangles!

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)

A.I's 1st Birthday. Ahhh, bless

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...

Woss is wubbish at interwoowing

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.

Question: Jacques, what really happened? Answer: Naff all.

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.

Who is the Real Fiona Bruce?

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.

Bob Warren R.I.P

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

He has a Name!

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

News flash: About a Boy

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

Hap-Les says No. He's Sikh of it.

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.

Who's the Head with Hirst?

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...

Baby Names Dilemma Article

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.

Happy Summer

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...

Love All

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.