Celebrity Changing Rooms

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.

British Press Awards

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!

Wembley 2

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.

Dr Who, 3rd series Premiere

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.

And let me put this to you, too . . .

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.

En passant . . .

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?

The Wembley Coliseum

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.

Bullshitterzone

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.

Comic Relief Does The Apprentice

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.

AA . . . On The Piss

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

Xit Louis. See ya.

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 ...

Marcel Dzama: Le Review

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...

We're all winners! Yeah, right.

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...

Sum ******* Week!

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.

10 Billion Bad Headlines

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.