Le Grand Hotel, Paris

Time for some serious product placement: Le Grand Hotel, Paris. Go and stay there. I spent a few nights with the Artist there recently and it was, well, magnifique. I needed to be there, as opposed to any other hotel, to do some top-up research for a book I am currently re-igniting. Certain key scenes happened there in 1914. Oh, the wilful intrigue of my vagueness.

Le Grand is a big hotel and part of the Intercontinental Hotels Group. It might not be everyone's idea of a romantic Parisian bolthole. There are plenty of bijoux hotels in the 6th, but I always feel a bit uncomfortable in places of limited staffing - you know, when the same face pops up in different areas of the hotel, or the worn out Monsieur on the front desk knows too much about your movements. I need the freedom of anonymity you get in a big hotel to help me switch off.

If you are looking for immaculate, yet understated five star service that is devoid of stuffiness, then you will struggle to do better than Le Grand. The IHG group are currently on a mission to offer a more chilled out first class service across all their hotels. It works here already. The hotel, which is one of the oldest large hotels in Paris, had a major re-fit in 2002, so it is finely spruced throughout. Our room was luxurious and overlooked the Opera House. Recent modern additions to the hotel include a small, but perfectly adequate spa. Despite the lush re-furb, the cosmetic traditions of the hotel's more famous older parts have been preserved. There's the relaxing Winter Garden central atrium, the exquisite Cafe de la Paix with its ornate splendour (what a place for breakfast) and then there is the devine, gilt-mirrored oval ballroom called the Salon Opera. Take your girl for a private waltz here beneath the giant crystal chandelier. This is where Daniel Craig hosted the post-premiere party for James Bond's Casino Royale in November, so if you've got two left feet she can at least close her eyes and think of him.

So, if you are considering a break in Paris, think of Le Grand. If not to stay, then maybe for a meal, or afteroon tea, or a flute of champagne. Or, indeed, a dance. Feel free to mention my name.

Sound Sensors - ******* Censor This!

I cursed out loud when I heard about plans to bring in sound sensitive sensors close circuit surveillance cameras. Give us all effing strength, I thought. I am a big hater of the proliferation of cameras. It is nothing short of insidious and reflects the utter disdain with which the dark powers of our country view us all and our civil liberties. If I wanted to be watched everywhere I went, then I'd sign up for a reality show. I have a deep fear as to where it is all going, or, indeed, has already gone. What are we leaving our children? And don't give me that rubbish defence that cameras stop crime. Were the Ipswich girls protected by being watched by some copper in a watchtower 20 miles away twiddling his joy stick? Or was PC Sharon Beshenivsky, or John Monkton and countless others?

My London borough - Kensington & Chelsea - is currently being legally vandalised with the erection of cameras for the CON-gestion Charge extension which begins in February. Pretty, old, quaint streets are being blighted by these black poles with their sinister little cylindrical eyes. You never ever witness them going up though. I reckon all the work is done over-night, in secret shame.

I will save my full rant about the State sponsored insanity that is this Extension for another time, but for now, I say bring on the Sound Sensor censors. I often walk past a speed camera, or high altitude CCTV lense, or even a bus lane camera, and stick two fingers up to the sky like a demented village idiot. At least the new cameras will get the full value of my venom with the audio because I frequently accompany my pointless salute with the words: "FUCK OFFFFFF!"

Walk The Blog

A wise internet expert lawyer friend called Mark Lloyd told me ages ago that having a blog was like owning a dog. You have to walk it otherwise it looks miserable and unwell. What can I say, I’ve been busy getting on with life on my island, hence the lack of blogging exercise. Not that I haven’t been thinking about it. In fact, there’s too much to write about and I could happily tap away every day, but there’s only so much writing self-indulgence one should consume. However, here’s a potted round up of vignettes, or soggy, one-bite blog canapes I've ben chewing during the past week or so. Think of this as me putting the unfit blog on a lunge and making it sprint a few laps around the office.

THE RAT TRAP: In need of creative solace for various writing ventures that are still in long-term incubation, I headed alone to the Finborough Theatre in Chelsea to witness some actors putting themselves through the mill at the outer limits of the creative world.

Fringe theatre is a sobering leveller for anyone wanting to create something. This is the reality, the kind of place where stuff really begins, once it has exited the painful solitary place of one's head. The Finborough is a small room above a pub with the audience so close they can feel your breath and see the quiver of your veins. Actors are peeled back to the bone in such places and you cannot fail to admire the hideous, personal excavation work they do when you see them up close at a mini crucible like the Finborough. I can almost forgive some of those mad-as-hatters actors I have interviewed over the years for their vainglorious verbiage when I see what they go through. Almost.

The Rat Trap was written by Noel Coward when he was 18 - yes, 18 - in 1918 but was only put on for 12 performances in 1926. It has been revived by director Tim Luscombe. It is a moving and powerful play which follows the turbulent marriage of two writers, their love shredded by imbalanced success.

Whether this play could carry itself on a bigger stage, I do not know, but I was riveted by this production and the performances across the cast. Most notably, the leads by Catherine Hamilton as thwarted novelist Sheila and Gregory Finnegan as the feted playwright Keld. They were superb. There were just 21 of us in the audience and such was the intensity of one of their argument scenes I felt physically uncomfortable, to the point where I felt a sudden auto-defence release of adrenalin, as if protecting myself from their venom.

So, if you are ever in need of an ice cold sluice of creative water, go along to your local fringe. Watch the actors unravel, marvel at their dedication. It is wonderful, almost inspiring. And it is not very often you smell freshly toasted tea cakes props from the stage, or see the steam from tea, or have the lead actress look you square in the eye and smile as you enthusiastically applaud.


TV ROUND UP. THE X-FACTOR: As expected, the winner was Simon Cowell. To slag off the X-Factor is pretty pointless. It would be like standing up in assembly at an infant school this week and lecturing against the commercialisation of Christmas. I have watched only a few episodes of this series – maybe five or six. If you have known Louis Walsh like I have and could control him with a remote control, you too would hit the Off button. I’ve known Cowell a bit, too, and he's great, priceless, so I persevere intermittently just to see him.

The discovery of Leona Lewis is quite something and I think Cowell cannot believe his luck. But, as they say, be careful what you wish for. Now we have a brilliant spin-off reality show: PRODUCER X-FACTOR. Has Cowell really got the talent to make Leona a star?

No excuses now. Even Gary Barlow warned him, so he must be in trouble. Everyone acknowledges that this girl is a supreme singer, but what will Cowell do with her? He has some tough decisions ahead - like what cover versions to give her. Judging by the “original” debut single handed to Leona from the show, I fear the worst. Within one listening I was humming my own chorus:

“Some people watched this show for a lifetime,
For a crap song like this…”


EXTINCT: I felt a shudder of disgust when I saw this show unfold after the X-Factor, not least to discover that Zoe Ball’s TV career was not actually extinct. This was a bad start. Flippancy aside, I felt utter revulsion at the prospect of people voting to keep animals alive. I didn’t get past the first ten minutes - I had endangered species to eat at my local illegal steakhouse – so I am sure it had some worthy intentions. But I can’t help worrying about the message this phone and text voting culture sends out to children. OK, it’s fine for the talent contests, but with wildlife? Surely there is something morally wrong here. I can imagine a scene in 50 years time when the last polar bear is found floating face down in an arctic lagoon as warm as the Caribbean and little Leona from Essex – named after the legendary diva - says: “Well, it ain’t my fault they all died. I voted for them in 2006.”

Over a rare silver back gorilla fillet later that night, I went into a state of reality TV excitement. I suddenly imagined a hybrid show of X-Factor and Extinct. It would be called X-STINKS and you could vote for certain living creatures to be extinct. I'm not a reality show voter by nature but I immediately started multi-texting the word LOUIS.


THE SUFFOLK MURDERS: And I thought the Prime Suspect series had ended recently. I admit, at times, I felt quite ashamed at my acute addiction to News 24 and Sky during the past week. However ghoulish, let’s be honest, it was all so appallingly riveting. Sadly, right now, I don’t have the time to examine the macabre reasoning for that in detail, or indeed all the fascinating aspects of the media coverage that this case has thrown up, especially in light of Tom Stephens' arrest.

However, I must offer up congratulations to the Sunday Mirror and its editor Tina Weaver for their scoop interview with Stephens. It presents a mouth-watering prospect: Tina going round to Andy Coulson’s office at the News of the World to collect his £250,000 reward.

Camera Diaz

I've just flipped through the multi-scented January edition of GQ and alighted on the Cameron Diaz beach photo shoot by Mert Alas and Marcus Piggott. Styled and dyed within an inch of her recogniseable, natural self, she cuts quite a figure in the sand and surf. I only write because I am perplexed by the shot on Page 179 with her in a see-through shirt, the sunlight casting a Ready Brek glow around her right breast. Is it an unwanted truth-telling trick of the light, or a printing error, or is she proudly showing off her boob job scar. Maybe she is very open about all this, I don't know. Or maybe they simply ran out of puff for the airbrush.

Bond. Plugger Bond.

I finally caught up with Casino Royale yesterday. I had some dead time, needed to veg’, and wanted to see it for myself. Call me a victim of hype. Quite what keeps me going back to James Bond all these years on, I don’t know. As with most blokes of my era, my childhood threaded through the Connery/Moore transition. Quite a golden thread to have in your life. But I’m not a Bond-buff with box sets and vintage posters, although I do still have the signed picture from Roger after I visited The Spy Who Loved Me set at Pinewood in, I think, 1976. I saw the submarines, the car, some filming, the lot. And then big Rog, in a black polo neck jumper, smoking a long cigar, came over for a chat. It was quite a day, which easily secured another 20 years of Bond interest.

I thought I was finally over it all after those awful, bouffant Pierce Brosnan vanity walks, but I still went back to see Daniel Craig. Keeping tabs on Bond is a bit like keeping in touch with an old friend, no matter how far the friendship has drifted. Things are nowhere near the same, but it’s good to see how he’s getting on.

And, clearly, Bond is getting on well. It seems churlish to criticise it. I've always liked Craig. A fine actor, marvellous in Layer Cake, and yes, he delivers on all the fronts required in Bond – no mean feat, bravo – but doesn’t he pout a lot and sounds so dry-mouthed you want to give him some water. And does anyone else think he over-did the weights and protein? And wasn't that switch from Venice to the interior set tragically, unbelievably obvious. Who did the lighting there, eh? And, didn't that card scene go on beyond all belief - what were they playing, group patience? And... oh shut up, it's a Bond film, it doesn't matter, it was fine. Thanks to Craig, the “franchise” (highly irritating word) is in good shape and is better stripped back from all the gimmicks. But blimey didn’t it go on? With the amount of blokes piling into the loo afterwards, I thought I was in for a tear up like the scene when Bond-baby gets his double “O” just so I could have a double “P”.

The trouble with Bond is that it has to be everywhere to succeed. Bill-boards, bus shelters, mag covers, newspaper giveaways, TV trailers, making-of documentaries. I’d seen the best bits and was sick of it before I sat in the darkness. Bond marketing is so highly pumped it is as if you are beaten into submission - rather like in a protracted Bond fight scene - until you go. I went to Paris for a weekend with the Artist the other week and Bond had even taken over our hotel – The Grand – for the post-premiere party. It is impossible to get away from it. Craig walked by me, pouting, in a grey suit, and thought, I’d ‘ave him, no bother. I'd have glassed him with my craftily acquired flute of Bolly, then clubbed mercilessly with my steel NHS crtuch.

If there is one thing I have learnt from Bond, it is to be utterly shameless in the pursuit of off-setting costs by blatant product-placement. Hotels, airlines, cars, watches, lap-tops, mobile phones, clothes, they all get blatant banner positioning in the Casino Royale banker. Hence, from now on, I’m going full out for brand connection in my life, so don’t be surprised when you next hear from me that I am sipping a glass of Krug while posting from my 118 Wally powerboat.

If it’s good enough for Bond, it’s good enough for me.

Press Gazette Lives!

Last Friday: The mobile goes while I’m on the M4 without a hands free set (please don’t tell). It’s Press Gazette. I nearly drive across three lanes to the Next Life exit. “But you died,” I say. “I wrote a sad farewell with TS Eliot and everything. I saw the hearse. A voice from beyond the grave, this can’t be so?”

But it was. Tony Loynes and the publishing company called Wilmington started banging on the coffin lid as PG was lowered into the ground and out it lurched. (Best I put us all out of the misery of this death analogy). OK. This company has bought the magazine and plan to publish this week. It is wonderful news, but talk about drama and leaving it all a bit late. I don’t understand. The editor and all the staff have collected their P45s and many of the key contributors have been, well, hacked off, but let’s not go over old ground. It is almost as if Mr Loynes and his team are having to re-launch the magazine from a standing start. Such a scenario seems crazy and unnecessarily difficult.

Mr Loynes wants me to continue the “Press Conference” interviews and we are going to talk again. Who knows how it can pan out for Press Gazette. A ruthless reduction in staffing and costs will help the accounts in the short term, but it will need decent news and features if it is to grow and continue to appeal to the most discerning readership you can imagine. However, it is the very nature of this readership that, in my brilliant opinion, is PG’s greatest asset and hope.

I only managed to blag all those big names to talk to PG because I believed in the unique demographic of the readership. I billed it in various mutations of breathless hyperbole along the lines of “the most powerful magazine readership in the whole world”. Seriously. A stream of PRs, managers and agents, from Tom Cruise's people down, got the hairdryer treatment from me as to why their client MUST appear in one of the smallest circulation magazines on Earth. I have to laugh when I think of some of the people I tried to get to. The Dalai Lama anyone?! But you can sell something if you genuinely believe in it. And a similar belief is what the new owners need to have.

Press Gazette has something special in its readership, but that readership is disappearing. So, there is a tough task ahead. Now that Wilmington has bought the magazine, they need to SELL it to the media world, so that in turn it will be bought. Only then can it have a healthy and prosperous new life. Welcome back.

Duran Durankle

I feel obliged to reveal the answer to a minor mystery laid down in the archive of this blog with more cunning suspense than anything Dan Brown could conjure up: the subject(s) of the interview that took me on a Jalfreizi jet to New York and, ultimately, to casualty and a month on crutches. Please carefully put down all fragile objects, the Phew! moment is here. It was Duran Duran.

The interview will run this weekend in the “Live” (as in LIVE each day, not perform LIVE!) magazine supplement of the Mail On Sunday. It was a decent interview - or “talk” as they/we say in the trade, with a good “line (angle) – which is them talking about the sudden departure of guitarist Andy Taylor.

They're a pretty good bunch to meet. Very normal, gracious, grounded, a laugh. They’ve been there and done it all and got out alive. By “it” I mean everything – the girls, the drugs, the booze, the fame. They are all in their mid-forties now, but they are still doing it - although without the substance support. Good on them. Their energy and indestructible desire for it all is quite remarkable and, no matter your musical taste, their back catalogue is impressive.

I had a drink and a chat with Simon Le Bon at Carina Round’s gig later that day. I reminded him that we had met years earlier - 1992/3’ish, I think. (“Hey, Rob, it's you! Have you done any good comebacks since then?" Numerous). Naturally, he didn’t remember and I wouldn’t have bothered if we hadn’t met at a slightly memorable event, rather than, say, a quick Hi at a party. No, I met Simon on one of my all-time favourite fantasy writing jobs that turned to mush in the face of cold-stone reality. And I've had a few.

Hello! and Autocar magazines asked me if I wanted to cover the inaugral London to Venice race of luxury super cars against the Orient Express. What a gig, yes of course. Imagine it - me, in a Ferrari or an Aston, hurtling across Europe, a babe taking notes for me in the passenger seat. Champagne and a masked Venetian ball on arrival, followed by a chilled out return trip on the Orient Express to rock my hangover away. I’ll murder to do this job.

I turned up at Victoria Station for the gala send off. The train was there in all its romantic Pullman splendour and the cars looked, well, amazing, and I’m not even a petrol head. Consider, if you will, my surprise when the race began and I was still on the platform with my photographer. When the fumes eventually dispersed, we were led to a silver Renault Espace, our home for the next 20-odd hours with other hangers on. Surely some mistake? No. Our vehicle was driven by a chain-smoking lunatic who was having a great time being “involved” in such a glamorous event. I'm not involved in anything, I thought, I'm in a van with you, you nutcase. I'm involved in misery. He insisted on playing Salt ‘n’ Pepper’s ‘Let’s Talk About Sex’ at full blast every time the party mood slackened. I had bus fever before we got past Maidstone.

Anyway, Venice in October was deserted, freezing and wonderful. We made it in time – only bloody JUST! - to attend the big party at the Cipriani. My solo glide across the lagoon on the hotel’s wooden Riva* was worth every fist-clenching, tooth-grinding hour on the road. Well, just about. I remember chatting with Simon that night. He had won the race in a red Diablo and was very happy. He smooched the party away with Yasmin before slipping back to their suite to rest his aching ankles from all that pedal pumping. The Diablo is a tiring drive. Me, on the other hand, had a sleepless night in a twin room in what amounted to a hostel for the homeless with the photographer snoring like a sick pig. Then it was back into the no-Effingspace. Now that's what I call rock 'n' roll.



*Le Bon told me he owns a Riva.

Ta

... I'm still slightly fumbling around in the Blogosphere and have just noticed some previous comments with heartfelt sympathies about Press Gazette, as well as some compliments about my efforts. Thank you!

Lost In Broadband. 18 Doughty Street: The Review

And so, to 18 Doughty Street for my web TV debut. Isn’t it amazing how fast things move in this electronic age? It only seems a few keyboard taps ago that I was blogless and clueless of broadband TV’s existence, but now I have more links than a medieval knight in chain mail and a place on this emerging i-station’s new sofa. But what is it like and why would one do it?

Naturally, vanity is always part of anyone’s desire to go on television. Shamelessly, I’ve had a few high-profile ego fluffings over the years – ITN, the GMTV sofa, several celebrity-based compilations on the Beeb and Channel 4. Hear this - I even went on America's Geraldo Show in the 90's in front of a whooping New York studio audience and live viewing figures equal to the population of several big countries. But, once the buzz is gone, it’s pretty grim pontificating about the Spice Girls or some celebrity you knew for an hour. I’ve given it all a wide berth for years.

Vanity alone was hardly enough to up-load me onto 18 Doughty Street. At least for now, its viewing figures are tiny, but growing. More than anything, I was fascinated to see it all in motion, to experience a part of this revolution, to wiggle about on a piece of television that exists at the thinnest extremities of the Long Tail. And no matter how few people are watching, live TV is live TV, with cameras, lights, microphones, so it is still a challenge to think on your feet – or on your bum on a sofa with the other stooges. In this case, they were Chicken, Cicero and Boysie (I think we’re on first name terms now).

So, how did I do? No idea, really. There’s something missing in my Safari software on this Mac, so I can’t watch my debut, but I know I enjoyed it, in a bizarre, self-indulgent way. I chipped in on some subjects, expressed some opinions, which is not bad for me. I’ve spent my professional life interviewing people, which requires you shut right up while someone else spouts off, otherwise you spend hours transcribing your unwanted voice. Hence, it was quite a novelty to switch off the enforced mute and have two hours on the stage of fringe theatre live TV. Let’s face it, no mainstream TV station would seek my views on Tony Blair’s apology for slavery, the Litvenenko poisoning, crime by black people, etc. Heck, if I had been listening for the first twenty minutes to the impassioned dispatches from Nick Boys Smith, instead of scanning the titles of biographies on the book shelf and generally looking around, I might even have delivered some instant wisdom on Welfare Reform. That alone might have produced a stunning piece of Colemanball’esque waffle.

As we all sat there, with the dead of night approaching, I couldn’t help but feel we were in a kind of ‘Lost In Translation’ timeless nothingness. I don’t mean that in a negative way, yet we were all talking earnestly, animatedly, about some serious stuff, but to exactly whom and why? Iain Dale’s affable, laid back anchorman delivery added to the virtual vibe, as if it were honed from the Bill Murray school of skilful underplay. Without question, it was fun to be Lost In Broadband at 18 Doughty Street and I wish them every success.

When it was all over, I wondered if my excited emptiness was roughly how the people who did the first television broadcasts felt when much of the world was devoid of TV sets. Did they blink back to reality and tell their friends about this intriguing new communication experience, only to get the reply: “Hmmm. But would you not rather talk to a big audience - like on the wireless?”

PG R.I.P

As everyone [and no-one knows] Press Gazette passed away around 6pm last Friday. It had been ill for some time and had only been kept alive recently via an unsustainable cash drip. It was a spirited act of CPR by all hands at the end, but finally the big Goodbye Switch had to be flicked. It is sad, but, as with any expected death of something you care for that is in pain, there is also a sense of relief.

PG will always have an affectionate place in my cuttings heart. My early pieces were a fun departure for me and I am happy with most of my interviews of the past year. I’ve just totted up that I did 37. I have the crow’s feet to prove it. Setting up all those interviews was an exasperating, energy-sapping, solo siege, the grim details of which I will spare you. Hence, I shall not miss a moment of that Herculean task, but no regrets here. “Press Conference” was fresh, it worked, and I am pleased about that.

Let’s be brutally honest, though, very few tears are being shed at PG’s demise within the journalistic community (er, is that one of them oxymoron things?!). In general, I wouldn’t say journalists are prone to sentimentality over such things. We have tougher, more immediate things to deal with. It is inescapable that PG failed because people didn’t want to pay for it. Journalists love a freebie, which is why the queue for PG in newspaper offices was always long. I haven’t seen each new edition of a magazine waited for so patiently by so many since, well, boarding school.

I can’t help but think there is a dark, foreboding irony that the newspaper industry's trade magazine should fold at this time, when the nerves and belief of journalists are being shredded by dramatic changes across the business. Take-overs, sliding circulations, receding ad revenues, cost cuts, death. What could prove to be a metaphor for newspapers across the land has just happened in microcosm with Press Gazette’s hollow death. And it all happened with barely a shrug.

This is the way a trade mag ends,
Not with a bang, but a whimper.

Mess Gazette

I post this note with some reservations as it involves whingeing. Worst of all, it is a whinge about money, but sometimes certain things need to be said. Better out than in, as they say.

Press Gazette magazine survives for another week, financed by the Administrator, Mr Robert Allen. Like a leaking life-raft on a stormy ocean, it continues to float, with all loyal hands clinging on. Who knows, it could yet be rescued.

The bad news, that falls upon me to report, is that all those freelancers who provided some bright flags of creativity aboard HMS PG during the past year have been unceremoniously chucked over board, without so much as a rubber ring, and told to whistle for their money in the choppy waters.

I speak on behalf of the acerbic columnist The Grey Cardigan, the scurrilous Axe Grinder diarist, the inexhaustible photographer Phil Adams and me, the Press Conference bloke. In many respects, we have been like staff; when ideas or copy were needed, always at a rapacious rate with difficult deadlines, we came up with the goods. And we always waited patiently, stoically, for our money to be squeezed through the constipated accounting system. When we got paid, it was what could be regarded as a “Creative’s Rate” for our efforts. But it was our choice, we're grown ups and we were happy to throw our lot in. Maybe other things, beyond money, helped motivate our productivity.

As soon as the financial plug was pulled on 3rd November, we ceased to exist and so did our back-pay. The staff continued to be paid - quite rightly - but not us. We are now getting to grips with the water-tight legal-speak of liquidation, but surely there is a moral obligation somewhere here, a point of principal? Afterall, this magazine is still trading. Naturally, there is not.

I spoke with Mr Allen this morning. He was startled and a little miffed I managed to get him on the phone. He bluntly [but not unkindly] informed me: “You are all basically sub-contractors with no employment rights.” Nice. So we are now in the long soup kitchen queue with the Post Office, a telecoms company, printers and many more. The chances of getting paid for those witty columns, gossip stories and photographs, or even that three page monster interview with Kelvin MacKenzie, with a splash thrown in, are zero. Even if the “Consortium” [FYI that is Associated Newspapers and the Telegraph Group] take over the magazine, I am reliably told there is no plan to pay the freelancers. Can you all please, very quietly Fuck Off, thank you.

We have no issue with editor Ian Reeves. He is a decent guy, in a deplorable situation. And we have no personal gripe with Mr Freud or Piers Morgan. Sympathies to them for the money they lost. They had the best intentions for PG, but theirs was a business venture, a punt, with all risks visible on the table. We, however, were hired to deliver and that we did, and more. So, our beef is with the Adminsitration process, the cut-off point that lumps us in with the paperclip suppliers.

Now, we know that ours is just a little sorrow. We will survive and these things can be quickly forgotten. African poverty, this ain't. Really, no need for Bono to get busy. There will still be turkey for Christmas, but when we are in the zone £3,000 per "sub-contractor", it does make you think that there are better things to do with your hard-earned dosh than have someone lob it in a big pot with a tight lid. I quite fancied a little trip to the Caribbean this winter with the Artist, or some new clothes, a couple of nifty suits. I'd quite like to give three grand to my mum. Maybe not.

I can't help thinking of Tommy Cooper who once quipped: “It’s not the principle. It’s the money.”

RM; GC; AG; PA.




Ps: Since this post, PG Editor Ian Reeves has asked me to state that he is fighting for payment to all journalists if PG is sold. I have suggested he post a comment here...

Blame Barrymore

I address you during the deepest of troubled moments for Press Gazette, the journalism trade magazine I have famously written for in recent times. Well, famously, only if fame can be measured in the tiniest of fractions. PG is certainly not famous for its circulation, so my work has been at the extreme outer orbital limits of readable existence in its printed versions. To be honest, if ever a hard copy is actually spotted, I always expect a breathless David Attenborough voice-over to play. "Ahhh! And here we have that rare specimen...Press Gazette."

Well, as of tomorrow - Thursday - it could indeed be extinct. There are three potential buyers still interested, but it is going to the wire. If they have a genuine rescue package it needs to appear, like now, or it's liquidation time for the 41 year old magazine. A sad day that would be.

At least I have an interview for no-one to read running in what could be the final edition, available almost nowhere tomorrow. It is with Michael Barrymore with his views on the press coverage he has, er, enjoyed over the years. He has had a tough time, not least over the tragic death of Stuart Lubbock in his swimming pool. He has been castigated by the newspapers for that and much else besides, so he gets to have his say in the article.

When I met Barrymore last weekend, I told him that our interview might well be in the obituary edition of the journalists' trade bible. "Just think, Michael," I told him. "An interview with you could help kill the magazine. Then all the press can blame you for that as well!"

That was Somme TV Show

Still socially gated, with the advanced stages of cabin fever taking grip, I decided to cheer myself up and get a count-my-blessings reality check by watching Channel 4's The Somme. It was all the things you hoped for and dreaded. I'm not sure it actually taught me anything new. I've read a bit about WW1 over the years and dip into the war poets frequently. A few lines from them take you there with a jolt. This show was another one of those good reminders. It was moving, gruesome, at times heart-wrenching and, naturally, it made me feel lucky to be on a sofa with a slight ankle injury and an organic beer in my hand, not a rifle and trench foot with someone about to blow a whistle to signify my imminent execution.

The re-enactments were skilfully filmed and the detail of the research of the personal stories particularly, as well as the military overview itself, was admirable. Such was the detail that the programme - coming in at two hours, five minutes - seemed to last as long as the battle itself. At times, I thought I wasn't going to make it to the end either.

A couple of observations: How can you spend all that time building up the stories of characters and then dismiss their ultimate destinies in a picture caption? Young "Cyril" was one of 27 out of 1,000 who survived in his attack zone and went on to become a "communist". Blimey, that begged a few more pars. And Captain May asked a fellow soldier to look out for his beloved "wife and baby". If we know that much detail, surely the researchers can tell us what happened to his good lady and child?

But the coup de grace whinge for me is this: as the credits rolled and the horrific collage swilled in my disturbed mind, the syrupy tones of the Channel 4 voice-over woman suddenly broke the dark spell. "We apologise for any bad language that featured in this programme." WHAT! Give me fucking strength, you stupid twats. Whoever makes rules that state these pathetic apologies must be made at the end of documentaries of such power should be put up against a wall and shot.

Tacky Races

Slumped on the sofa, with the gammy left foot in the air, I channel hopped to relieve the pain and boredom of my enforced incarceration. I alighted for 15 minutes at Sky One’s The Race and suddenly felt better, although somewhat sadder.

I was surrounded by other crocked souls, but these were exhibiting their severely injured careers in the latest mangle of car crash TV. With Denise Van Outen and her hair extension at the wheel, it is always a dead cert to be a bawdy, sickening multiple pile-up. She is a bleached relic from the awful Ladette 90’s, but is thankfully getting ever nearer to her rightful telly destination: the breaker's yard.

There were the usual £30K-plus-exes suspects. I was shocked to see Nick Moran there, rightfully looking embarassed. I interviewed him last year, at length over brunch at Soho House. He struck me as honest, talented and a decent bloke. It was a good interview but annonyingly hit the spike. I may exhume it for my website some time. Moran readily admits that his big mouth and ego has cost him dear and pissed off some serious people in the acting world, but I can't believe his career is in such a slump that he needs to take this crass role. Reverse J-spin out of there now, Nick.

However, it was the sight of David Coulthard and Eddie Irvine that nearly gave me whiplash. It seems only a few laps ago that these guys were leading the glitzy G-force life of Formula 1. Surely, they don’t need to be doing this, either for the cash or their profiles. Why? With their grey fuzz showing, and the physical bloat from less training, they are setting off on a dangerous road getting aboard this wreck.

Hot Air

For a fleeting moment, I have just marvelled like a little boy at the giant Palm airship as it floated by my window in London. What a bizarre, beautiful sight, set against a glorious blue sky. Two helicopters, blackened in shadow, hovered like giant flies near the beast. Then it was gone, meandering somewhat erractically into the distance above the river.

With the image gone from my easily seduced naked eye - and now only available on Sky - the wearily matured, journalistic cynic in me reared its ugly, sober head: Publicity stunts, the old ones are the best. Put the word "biggest" in front of something and the media run like lemmings. It's just a bloody big estate agent's hoarding made of helium. And, to be frank, it is plugging one of the most vulgar man-made creations I have ever witnessed up close and in person.

I sat on a beach in Dubai a few years ago (2002, I think. I was there to interview Nell McAndrew and her bikini. Nice work if you can get it) and I looked out for hours on end in utter horror at the mid-point between me and the horizon. I was fixated by giant machines sucking up sand from the sea bed and spitting it out in furious flumes across the waves into humongous piles. I was told that this was to be Palm Island in a few years time, the most beautiful place on Earth - or, er, sand - to live.

Since then, the PR spin has been moved better than anything Shane Warne's wrist could flick and the Palm Jumeirah is now billed as the "Eighth Wonder of the World" in today's press release [courtesy of Orient Planet PR & Marketing]. Eighth Wonder, my arse. The hyperbole is appalling and the media should be ashamed of themselves for falling for this stunt, no matter how pretty it is. Save yourselves and airbrush the name "Palm" out of your scenic London skyline photos of this airship.

All I can think about is the millions of fish and tiny sea creatures and stones and shells shaped over thousands of years that were forcibly evicted to become the hardcore for the foundations for these apparently exotic homes. But, you know that old saying about castles built on sand...

A foot note...

Well, my harmless little bit of pain with the sprained ankle thingy unexpectedly kicked into another gear. The foot ballooned and flared over the past day or so until the agony hovered around the Red Zone last night. Consequently, I have just had 14 hours at Chelsea & Westminster hospital. And a fine set of hours they were, too. I bascially received the varying opinions of about six doctors and four nurses. The consensus was that the injury had inexplicably exploded into a freak infection. They wanted to keep me in overnight in case the infection spread into my bloodstream and caused death. All this for twisting an ankle.

I resisted the over nighter B&B option for all my worth because I have a piece to write and a dealine to meet. I am back home now with a bag of pills that would make Mr Tambourine Man jealous. All that is left to say is a heartfelt Thanks to all the amazing, caring people who paid such phenomenal attention to my bloated piece of flesh and bone. Throughout the entire excursion, there was not one open palm in sight.

One more tip on tipping...

OK, this is the last item from that New York trip...

While there, I met up with a dear friend who has lived in NYC for about three years in a tower block apartment on the east side, mid-town. In late November, early December every year she gets a Christmas card from the superintendent of her block with a list of all the people who work there who will require the traditional Christmas tip. There are generally 22. They all expect about $50 each. When you add up the number of apartments, it means each guy is getting around $8,000. Most doormen earn about $35,000, so that's a fair bonus. Nice. It's not bad when you consider that they get tips every day of the year for doing their jobs, like hailing cabs, or masterfully pressing a button on the wall to summon a lift. To tip them $1 these days is an insult. $2 or $3 is minimum. From November onwards, I am reliably informed, these normally surly, huffing 'n' puffing oiks in trenchcoats and peaked hats at the block suddenly become alarmingly - no, expensively - friendly.

And this is not all. In New York at Christmas, my friend has to tip her nanny at least a week's wage, her cleaner, the newspaper boy, the grocery delivery man and many more. She even has to tip ALL her two kids' teachers - that's the dance and swimming coaches, as well as all the academic ones. Teachers in the States don't like soppy little cheery gifts like chocolates, or scented creams. Oh no, they like hard currency, greenback-style or gift vouchers. As my friend says: "Everybody has got their hand out in New York at Christmas". You can just imagine Christmas morning over there: "Sorry, kids, no pressies this year. We gave all our money to the doormen."

OK, one more point to close. My cab driver back to the airport was very friendly. Originally from New Delhi, he is very happy to have his Green Card and be driving his cab. He tells me he takes home about $9,000 a month, plus $2,500 for renting the cab out to a night driver. So, he's on about about $138,000 a year. He also owns the "Medallion" of the cab after buying it outright for $175,000 over a period of years. I'm not sure of the detail of the Medallion, but it's a big deal to own this in New York. It is now worth $400,000. He rattled off these figures cheerily and told me how he had certain tactics in place to avoid tax. I was slightly aghast at the brilliance of this man's financial structure. And, me, a humble writer. I told him plainly: "It's great that you are doing so well. The only downside is you've just blown your tip for this fare. You clearly don't need it!" And you know what, he looked deeply and genuinely pissed off. Huh!

Carina Round: The Review

[Further recollections from my mini NYC jaunt...]

I don't know, this blogging game. Suddenly I have an outlet for all this stuff that happens along the way that doesn't really add up to too much. But, as they say, better out than in].

[NYC, Second night]. Carina Round is from Wolverhampton and has been signed by Dave Stewart to his Interscope label. Unsurprisingly, I had never heard of her, but I'll give a her a name-check here. You never know, it might help. Her debut album was due out in October, but has been delayed and will be out next year. She was doing a short, showcase gig at a club called Stereo, way out on West 29th Street and 10th Avenue. I’d never been that far west in the city before. I stood alongside a pop legend who I had interviewed earlier in the day – it pains me not to name drop - and about 50 others as she rattled through five numbers. I only mention this gig because I think she has something.

I am not moved to write a full review here, although I will say that she has a powerful voice and a definite stage charisma. She lead sings while playing electric guitar in a band. The style is on the rock side of pop. Plenty of noise, energy and passion. Raven-haired and in a 50's black dress with an extravagant pink trim, Carina looks good and has an amusing knock-kneed dance style when she's in the grip of a song. I’d probably put her down as a mix between Alanis Morissette and Bjork. A fairly potent blend. I liked her voice. It has power and versatliltiy and there's a freshness there. I've dipped into the promo' CD her "people" gave me since I've been back and there are some growers. There was too much noise at that mini gig to get too carried away, but I liked her. Certainly, the volume of her delivery made my swollen ankle tremble. It was like having very aggresssive ultra sound treatment.

I went on to two parties with Carina and her bass player, Smudger, after the gig. I know, such rock 'n' roll. In truth, the parties were average-to-shite, but Carina and I chatted like old mates. That's showbiz for you. She's a lively character and has a bucket load of attitude and, I think/hope, the talent to match. If nothing else, she can neck beer with the best of us. If she makes it, she'll probably be hell for her PRs but good for the rest of us because she speaks her mind. Journos take note: even though I wasn't working as such that night, I could tell that there is a story there in her background. You just know where there is good copy. So, if she gets a hit, at least the publicity shouldn't be too much bother. Good luck to her.

Grand Hyatt Hotel: The Review

[Further pointless recollections from last week's NYC trip...]


Thankfully, for this interview job, I was switched at the last minute from the Hell Inn in Harlem to the Grand Hyatt Hotel on Park Avenue at Grand Central. I think it was by way of an apology for the Jalfreizi Jet. Things didn’t start well.

I got out of my yellow cab, disorientated and feeling slightly sick after a brake, accelerate, honk horn, neck-jarring ride from JFK through the rush hour. The driver was straight from Central Casting’s "surly, grunting oaf" category. I sat there wondering if I had the bottle to commit the sin of sins in New York and not tip the taxi man [20% meant an extra $10. All non-recouperable]. It is easier to walk by a starving blind mother with her three maimed children on the pavement than get out of a cab without tipping, but I did indeed have the nerve and experienced what can only have been instant karma, Big Apple-style.

He dumped me about ten feet from the curb. A doorman arrived, one palm naturally wide open. I alighted, cases in hand, and stepped on an uneven tarmac patch by a manhole and immediately went over on my left ankle. I am not talking just a wobble and stagger. I mean, right over, ligament stretching over. Screeching agony over. “FUCK!” I shouted at the top of my voice, trying to maintain my balance. “FUCK!” “FUUUUUCK!” Pain ripped through me. I looked up and there were about 30 people standing on the side walk staring at me. Not one person offered to help or smiled in sympathy. Welcome. The doorman heard my accent and sensed there was no money in injured British people, so he ignored me, too.

The one upside to this injury: the agony instantly cured my toothache.

The Grand Hyatt. Not a bad hotel, in a business-travel sort of functional way. I think it has had a major refit in recent times and I'm told that Hyatts generally have upped their game. The lobby of this one is a hideous landfill of brown marble with an absurdly large water feature-cum-fountain dominating the entire atrium. The rooms are spacious and clean and the beds are vast kings with decent pillows and soft linen. The woman on the reservations desk had no idea I was now operating on one leg but, by fluke, she gave me a room for the disabled. The bathroom was a wet room, ie: no bath, just an open space beneath the shower. I was desperate for a long, soothing bath but I was in so much pain I could not face the hassle of moving. I learnt later that the tiler hadn’t bothered putting a gradient in the floor tiles because my shower flooded the bathroom. He probably got tipped well for the shoddy work though. I built a dam by rolling long white towels and immediately felt bad about the enviroment and all that extra detergent going into the oceans. It's Room 2740 that is liable to flooding, if anyone is interested. I would hate for anyone to aquaplane out of the 27th floor in their wheelchair.

What more can I say about the Grand Hyatt: $299 per night plus taxes totalling $44.40 is pretty good value for central Manhatttan. Naturally, like all hotels, they totally fleece you for using the telephone, but the breakfasts are good [$32, plus tip - even though it is a self-service buffet. Explain that]. I could go on, but if I write any more, I'll be looking for a little friendly bonus...

Tipping: The Point?

[Another New York re-cap...]

Largely due to work, America is the country I have visited most in my life. More than France, even, although I’m not going to do a precise count up. New York is certainly the foreign city I have visited most. People always say, “But New York’s not America”. I first visited there in 1979 on a family holiday [we even flew first class from Miami] and have been many times since. It has always seemed pretty American to me.

I have a life-long troubled ambivalence towards America. It’s too difficult and multi-layered to explain here. Much of it, I think, is down to watching too many cops’ series and thrillers set in the States at a very young age. Just that unmistakeable prolonged ring of an American telephone triggers a Pavlovian fear in me. I hear it and know that someone, somewhere has been murdered and Columbo will arrive soon. These things stay with you.

As soon as I get through immigration in America I always tip the first 50 people I see. Anyone will do. I give them money for looking at me, for not looking at me, for snarling, for smiling, anything. This helps get me into the groove of giving money away. If only you could pay for your tips in advance, like an entry tax, then it would save all that awkwardness and brain sapping arithmetic.

On this last trip, I think I hit the tipping point with tipping. You can’t do anything these days without hearing about the friggin’ Tipping Point in one business or another, so why not The Tipping Tipping Point? The trouble is, if I grouch about tipping, everyone will simply think I am tight, so this could be a thankless exercise. I don't believe that I am tight, but I have a growing, very British problem with tipping. And America peels it back to the raw.

In fact, I was brought up TO tip. Generously. When we were flush in the 70’s, my dad told me that tipping showed “style” and he used to scatter pound notes around with reckless abandon. Waiters, petrol pump attendants, doormen, they all got a bung. Such is the legacy of seeing this that I have always been ultra sensitive to tipping and, consequently, I have stylishly given away small fortunes.

As is widely known, Americans in the service industries have a deep suspicion [hate] for the British because we are relatively tight tippers. The expect 15-20%. We’re still locked into the days of 10%, or 12.5% if you are good at maths, which I am not. I noticed in New York this time that many bills have a tip guide for the tight, blind and the British. Fanelli's, an old traditional bar and burger joint in Soho [Tourismoville. Medium-rude. Good burgers. But don't bother] has this clear message on their receipts: “SERVICE IS NOT INCLUDED. 15-20% is CUSTOMARY." They then gave a break down as follows for my $20.30 bill. "15% - $3.05; 18% - $3.66; 20% $4.06." The excuse you always hear is that you have to tip well in the States because the service is great, but the waiters are poorly paid. Surely, if the wages are so bad, that is an issue for the employer and the staff? Even, the Government.

I have a friend who owns a number of restaurants in London. He is very succcessful and he loves the Service Charge system. He gets to pay his staff the minimum wage, while everyone else picks up the tab to keep them happy. He gets richer and richer quicker.

As a writer, I have never received a tip. No one has ever read a piece and said, "Hey, Rob, that was great, here's something for your back pocket. Buy yourself some nice new ink or something. Be lucky"

Anyway, I'm starting to whinge. Ugly. Enough.

Air India: The Review

[The trip to New York is over, so I’m back to catch up on my Blog. Here are some thoughts from along the way on my rock star glamour jaunt...]


Not a good start: my up-grade blag crashed and burned at the check in desk at Heathrow’s Terminal 3, so get yer hankies out for a tale of woe from Row 53. My blagging spiel is all adrift these days, so it was not much of a surprise. I have no one else to blame except me.

I’ve been pretty good at blagging up-grades over the years, but the gusto in my efforts has all but disappeared. Something in me has died. Before, it was a bit of fun, a challenge, and it was always worth smothering your pride for some embarrassing pleading because, when it works, there are few things sweeter than sinking into that big seat and sipping an instantly delivered glass of champagne when you know that the Unfortunates who are folding their legs in Economy are a good hour away from a cup of tap water in a foil sealed plastic cup. But these days, the whole process of asking to be up-graded is a bit too demeaning, pathetic even. My pride simply won't be so easily swallowed. Why is this?

Let's be honest here: I had really hoped by now that I’d be flying First Class, or at least Business, without breaking sweat. Even if I am not paying, then at least the people hiring me would reflect my worth by bumping me up front. This is not the case. So, when I begin my patter to the check in supervisor about my qualifications for a better seat, for free, I can’t help but feel a sense of failure. This is not a position of strength from which to blag and, hence, my argument withers easily. I now genuinely believe that people beyond a certain age should not go asking for up-grades. Just accept your financial short-comings and, thereby, your position in life and humbly take your uncomfortable place at the back. But please, at all times, do keep your pride and self-worth in the up-right position.

This is all rather deeply psychoanalytical, a bit deep. I’m still too new to blogging to know how far to go, so I will leave it at that and get on with the Air India review…

You know I said I had an open mind about Air India? Well, I lied. My mind was full of preconceptions and they were all proved to be correct. But, to be honest, it is too much of a wide open goal to slag off this airline. Yes, its aircraft have threadbare carpets - speckled with yesterday's rice - torn and wonky seats and plastic trimmings that are jaundiced with age. Yes, the food is iffy and the cabin was whiffy. But you cannot hide the fact that for a last minute flight to New York, Air India offers good value. And, well, the Cobra beer was as cold as any beer I have been handed on any other airline, so that helped ease the pain and shame. It certainly soothed the tooth ache...

... well, I got this far...

Another week, another interview to prepare for. The secrecy of the commissioning process means I have to be cagey. Sorry. As if anyone will read my fledgling blog, then set up a rival interview with the same people to spike mine. But you cannot be too careful. I'm interviewing a group of showbiz icons - it will have to be as vague as that. Two days trawling the net in search of cuttings has left be foggey eyed. Now I've got to pack a bag. The interview is in New York. It's all very exciting, high-end glamour, you know. Naturally, I'm going out up front on BA to test out the flat bed, then staying at the Drake to rest a bit before working...

...well, of course I'm not. I've never heard of the hotel I'm booked into and the flight is on Air India. I have an open mind. I've never flown with them, so it might be amazing. But, deep down, I already know that the up-grade blag is more crucial than ever. Two other things are also on my mind: I never eat garlic, or curries before interviews. And I have tooth ache that ascended to Amber alert over the weekend. It could be on Red by the time I arrive. So, ahead of me I have eight hours in mule class on the Jalfrezi Jet to hole up in Harlem somewhere. Then I get to eat mints and whack up on pain killers, to then have precisely one hour to get stories out of four weary celebrity legends. To then get back on the plane. Rock n roll.

...the first keyboard taps

…and so, it came to pass on this grey London day, that I started a blog. Exactly for what reason, or where I expect it to go, I haven’t a bloomin’ clue. But maybe I will find out somewhere along the way…