Long Way Down The Pan

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.

Daylight Robbery

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.

And the winners were ... les touts

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.

SACRE BLOODY BLEU!

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!

The Brown Stuff

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.

Baltic Restaurant SE1

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.