Go, Davis, Go.

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.

Is it cuz I'm white?

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.

One way idea

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.

Turn back Times, too

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.

Big Boring Burchill

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.

POLICE. NO CAMERA. OVER-REACTION

“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.

Britain's Got Semi-Talent

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.

Season greetings

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.

The alcohol Test

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.

Will Self - the interview

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?

It's all a Fix penalty

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.

Some plugs for A.I

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.

Prescott's money sewer

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.

Lineker is no Master

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.

Tebbit, you're havin' a laugh

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.

A.I sponsors top Press Award

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.

PM Questions - and Answers

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)

The Apprentice is on his way

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...

Piers Morgan . . . World Exclusive Interview!

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 wins ...

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!