Every Little Bit (of Publicity) Helps

ASDA should be giving their in-house PR a nice bonus some time soon.

The chain got some great coverage in the newspapers today for selling Dom Perignon champagne at £30 a bottle.

I have never been to an ASDA store, but when I read that, well, I was nearly in the car within a minute. But I know an offer that is too good to be true when I see one, so I called my nearest ASDA first and had an hilarious chat with a guy in the wines and spirits department.

"There are no bottles left."

"Really? But you have just announced this amazing promotion. Surely they can't all have sold already. How many did you get?"

"Six bottles. We are expecting six more at some point, but no one knows when."

SIX bottles for a giant store. Hysterical.

Give a case of the stuff to the PR who came up with this wheeze.

Virgin On The Ridiculous 2

An up-date on my problems with Virgin Media.

I finally got through to Customer Services to register my complaints this morning. A pleasant chap typed away as I dictated. He then informed me that there was really no point in me doing this as no-one would read this complaint. Eh? "There's no need to read it. At least we have a record of the complaint."

What utter nonsense. And this is a company that states on its pre-recorded phone loop that it is the most popular portal in the UK. W

Er, why?

My Virgin friend then declared that to have a complaint actioned I would have to write to head office. Which I am now doing.

Expect a new email address for me shortly.

A very modern dilemma: Why do we use up so much energy trying to use things that save us energy?

Virgin On The Ridiculous

Right, that's it, I have had enough. I am having to resort to a Blog to get some feedback from Virgin Media.

I know Sir Richard Branson is busy buying Northern Rock, but I really think he needs to attend to this speck of his empire before making his next billion with that building society.

I have been with Virgin.net for years. There was no obvious reason for choosing them, except that I probably bought into the dependability and geniality of the Virgin brand way back when I started email and all this tech stuff that dominates our lives.

I've never changed provider. I suppose it's a but like not changing your bank account - you feel safer sticking with what you know and you can't really be bothered to change

Well, "what I know" is no longer good enough. My email has not been sending properly for weeks. It can sometimes take a dozen tries before a message finally disappears.

Plus, my broadband connection - sold to me as "up to 8meg" is nothing of the sort. Beware of the "up to" words. It is a blag. On a good day, I currently get around 2meg. Whoopee.

But why the Blog? Well, I have been watching my life disappear on emails, lists of tech instructions, and phone calls (25p per min) to Virgin Support. It is a nightmare and I am fed up. What is happening to this company?

In exasperation, I have tried to call Customer Service to complain and get some action. Can I get through? Can I hell. Clearly, the lines are jammed with other people like me tearing their hair out at the poor service they are getting.

Well, I think I have the answer. I have Sir Richard's personal mobile number, so I am going to call him right now and get him on the case.

And if I can't get through, then I will post his number here. I'm sure someone out there will get through to him some time and sort this mess out.

Dear Bill Deedes, RIP

Sadly, I didn't know 'Dear' Bill Deedes. I never even met him. I wish I had. The reaction to his death and respectful warmth to his phenomenal spirit and joyful character has been incredible to witness. Oddly, considering I did not know the man, I have found it all quite moving. Clearly, he was a truly fine chap. What a life. What a personal legacy. Oh, to experience, achieve and leave half as much.

Equally, I do not know Charles Moore, so there is no sucking up agenda here when I say that his fine address at the memorial service is worth a listen on the Telegraph's media player.

Just that.

Adieu

Parking Crime Watch

Please be careful of the steam coming from my head...

It's late, it's dark, half the residents' parking is closed off. You've had a long day. You make a mistake and park in the wrong bay. It turns out that there is a Disabled Only sign up somewhere high, out of immediate sight.

While you sleep, the Morlocks go to work. They give the car a ticket. Then a clamp. Then they tow the bloody thing.

The next day you get a shock, a pang of worry - Has it been nicked by the benefit funded vermin you help keep warm? - then the bitter bile of realisation begins to rise. You have had the idiocy to let your guard down in this unforgiving city.

Then you get the happy snaps of the Morlocks' fine work - and the £260 bill. TWO HUNDRED AND SIXTY BLOODY POUNDS.

Where is that loot going? Who gets what from that swag bag of 21st century highway robbery?

The thing is, this didn't even happen to me, just to someone dear to me, but I am still steaming mad with the absurdity, the blatant theft of this system.

The upside is, I have come up with an idea to beat the clampers and tow merchants of this world. I will invite you all in very soon and we can win...

Until then: Don't you dare relax. Keep 'em peeled. Parking Warden crime affects every driver sometime. Don't sleep tight.


London. I love it.

Some Winter Travelling Tips

As I am sure you are beginning to make last minute arrangements for your winter or New Year holidays, can I just stop by with a couple of recommendations following a glorious trip earlier this year.

The Madikwe Lodge safari lodge in South Africa is sensational. Luxurious and beautiful private rooms are carved into the granite of the local rock formations, with heated floors and a private plunge pool. You even get a private outdoor bath and shower overlooking the bush. Well, totally private except for the elephants and lions looking on - in awe - as they drink at a nearby watering hole. The Madikwe staff are fantastic, as is the food. The game drives are terrific and we easily saw many multiples of four of the Big Five (the leopards eluded us) - thanks to our cheerful, eagle-eyed tracker Johannes. What a star - although one lion got a little too close and looked me square (meal?) in the eye. Most memorable sight, apart form the animals, has to be the Mars-red, iron rich earth. I even brought some home to create my own paint. (Exhibition to be announced soon).

Mauritius is only a four hour flight from Johannesburg and is an ideal place for a beach side crash out after an exhausting safari. I would strongly recommend the Hilton. I always expect the worst when I hear that name - an air-con, high rise, business hotel - but this one is part of the five star 'Hilton Worldwide' range. It is stunning and lacks the stuffiness of some of the other five star resorts. I finally cracked mono water skiing, thanks to Tom from the newly installed Mark Warner water sports centre, and I had the best acupressure massages in my life at the dedicated health spa.

Both these trips can be booked via the Virgin Holidays website or by calling: 0871 222 0307.

One last tip (plug): Virgin Upper Class to South Africa is superb. But make sure you give yourself a good two hours in the Clubhouse at Heathrow - just so you are, ahem, nicely relaxed for that strenuous flight.

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.

"Hospital Finds Cure For Dull Awards Ceremonies"

And, so, to Covent Garden and The Hospital for The 2nd Hospital Club Awards. After embracing such fine hospitality, it seems only fair to do a bit of product placement for what is an outstanding private members club. (1st grovel).

It began with a Veuve Clicquot reception, then we retired to the basement TV studio for a simple, yet fine dinner (dressed crab, shepherd's pie and peas, summer pudding, Montagny 1er Cru, Grand Cru St Emilion. Merci). The guests were a select, high-end media crowd, plus some celebs - Thandie Newton, Sadie Frost etc. I was next to Jimmy Nesbitt on PR supremo Alan Edwards' table (am I sounding enough like Michael Winner yet? apologies).

I've gotta say Nesbitt was great, which was quite a revelation considering how much I have privately loathed him thanks to those bloody Yellow Pages ads. Tracey Emin joined us later and did what she always does best - snarled at everything. A memorable moment from the night was probably meeting Liz Murdoch's impressive cleavage. Well, not her bust as such, but the stunning, naked tear drop diamond swinging heavily above it. Clearly a fake. It has to be said that this 'thrill' was almost trumped by suddenly becoming unwilling witness to a contretemps between one well-known media executive and a star scribe. The said writer collared the said exec' - in clearly a rare meeting - and complained bitterly (but playfully) about not getting any lurve from the office. No phone calls, no emails, no lunches. Bleet, bleet. Nothing to say how wonderful the said writer's work is (except, of course, a big fat cheque for not a lot, thank you). Ahh, and to think that even the much-loved, stellar names yearn for big ego fluffs from the big boss - yet still get blanked.

The awards, which celebrate talent across the creative industries, followed dinner and were also something of a revelation. No stage, no gushing trailers, no lectern, just Mariella Frostrup trotting around the room with a mic, chuckling and ad-libbing neatly to hurry things along so she could get back to relieve the babysitter. She introduced a judge, the judge presented the award at the winner's table. Brief, modest speeches followed, although most winners declined to talk. Applause. Fros-trot. Next. Repeat as before. All done in half an hour. Bosh. Get on with chatting and drinking. Cool.

So, The Hospital has discovered the antidote to long-winded, dull awards ceremonies. Bravo.

Mariella and her mic for the BAFTAS and Oscars, please.

Imagine: No Alan Yentob

To the tune of John Lennon's 'Imagine'.
A mournful John at the piano and an empty chair beside him.
ACTION!


Imagine no Alan Yentob
It's easy if you lie
No big time presenter needed
Just pre-shot hmms and a sigh
Imagine all those expenses
Living for freeee... (aside)... oh lucky me!

Imagine jetting to any country
It isn't hard for Al and his Pals
No need to Meet or Question
And no Researching too
Imagine all those people
Taking the total piss...

You may say I'm a schemer
But I'm not the only one
I hope someday you'll join TV
And the world will blag as one

Imagine no commissions
I wonder if Blue Peter can
No need for Socks or Cookies
A Network without phone-in shams
Imagine no more telly people
Deceiving all the world…

You may say I'm a schemer
But I'm not the only one
I hope someday you'll join us
And the world will do Noddies at no-one



(With respect to JL).

Fat Knacker Night

Monday night veg-out saw me tuck into a double portion of gut-churning culinary TV turkey, 'Nigella Express' and 'Hell's Kitchen'.

I had just rustled up a vegetarian shepherd's pie, then failed to answer the closing questions on University Challenge, when up popped Nigella. At times, I wonder what onyx stone I have been living under because the entire Nigella Goddess phenomena-thingy pretty much passed me by, but suddenly here she was, in super nauseating close up, super glammed-up, and oh-so-super, super-sized in her super home.

Really, this programme had me spluttering on my lentils from start to finish. It was an unexpected, unintentional comedy gem. I found myself waiting for Nigella to suddenly double up over her spare tyre with laughter as the camera pulled back to reveal Richard Curtis, script in hand, directing a Comic Relief special. It is beyond parody.

Nigella, oh-so-busy, oh-so-stressed, hopping into a black taxi to the Waitrose in Belgravia, then back in a taxi to her hellish Eton Square home, then cooking frantically in her Mayfair restaurant-spec kitchen for her family and chums. I'm sure the stress of the taxi trips resonated with all those who struggle on the bus to the local Lidl with ten quid to feed five.

But it was Nigella's menu that had me tickling the belly lard with mirth. Pork chops fried in oil with a double cream mustard sauce and gnocchi, or deep fried calamari with garlic mayonnaise. The gut-busting coupe de grace was Nigella coming home to twinkling Christmas lights after a liver full of champers, to curl up in bed with a couple of stale croissants baked in cream and egg. And, then, she came back for more with EXTRA cream before settling down for a late night heart attack. Hilarious. Rename this show 'Nigella's Express Taxi Route To Becoming A Fat Knacker'.

Another fat knacker turned up in ITV's Hell's Kitchen - Mark Peter White from Leeds, aka Marco Pierre White. Marco kept going on about the fact that he hadn't been in a kitchen for seven and a half years. By the size of him, he couldn't have been far from one. If anything, he looks like he's spent the best part of his resting years on a park bench, or in a box on the Embankment. Marco sounds addled and looks so poorly he can only be a packet of fags or a Nigella pudding away from a defibrillator.

I presume the intention behind such a "Legend" doing this crass - and, it has to be confessed, pathetically addictive show - is to re-heat the souffle of his former glory. Well, by the sight of this opener, it ain't gonna rise an inch. Would your taste buds get wet at the thought of Marco sweating and wheezing over your grub, his infested hair swooshing around while he man-handles it all with his grubby savaloy fingers? (I never realised just how much grease-ball chefs handle the food until these shows. Urgh).

Oddly enough, Marco didn't come across as the beast that everyone at ITV expects, indeed insists. If anything, he seemed nervous and genuinely encouraging and avuncular to his hapless "celebrities", rather than truly nasty like Ramsay. Maybe this genuine nicer side of him will gradually come across more and save his bacon.

But there is only one way to beef up Hell's Kitchen and make it a dish worth serving: bring in Nigella.

Note: Since writing this blog, it has been revealed that Nigella's home shots are a big fat porky pie and actually filmed in a studio in South London.

For the Love of God, Your're Taking the Mick

Hail be to Damien Hirst, Lord of the Blag-n-Swag, the leading Taking The Piss-Artist of the 21st century, he has sold his diamond encrusted skull to a group of Bandwagon Believers for $100million. Bravo, and what a snip for them, I say. And to think, they don’t even own all of it – Damien still owns a slice. Incroyable! Really, I do doff my diamante Von Dutch trucker’s cap to him.

Well, in a scoop of journalistic enterprise to rival Damien’s 29-carat chutzpah, I have managed to snag the interview all those vile media people wanted – a chat with the real owner of the skull. Yes, after a flurry of calls to contacts in the Afterlife, I managed to track him down to a silver lined cloud, playing his platinum harp, for a full and frank talk. A genuine out-of-this world exclusive.

Naturally, as the progenitor of this interview idea, I really should not have to be arsed with actually doing the bloody thing myself. Like Hirst, I am generally minded to get serfs to do the tiresome nitty-gritty of creativity for me, to save my energies for photo calls, preview nights and, of course, money counting. Unfortunately, all my writing slaves are currently hard at work in my Word Factory in Wapping compiling articles, film scripts, plays and novels for me to bask in the glory of their creation at a later date. Hence, it fell to me to conduct this work. Yawn-bloody-yawn, work, what a mug’s game. If there was already such an interview in existence I would have just copied it, but alas No.

I discovered that the real owner of the skull was a young man called Mikel Sumjuans-Rippunmeov, who heralded from the darkened nether regions of Central Europe in the early 18th century. He was something of a star in his day, rising from humble roots in Bristolianav to become a celebrated alchemist. However, it all went a bit pink pear-shaped when the tricks of his trade were revealed and people realised that he was not making gold after-all, but instead a yellowy worthless lead. Ultimately, he died a premature and violent death, but more of that later.

I meet Mikel – who prefers to be called Mick - at a secret location. Tired and little bit grouchy at the skulduggery of recent events, he opened is heart to me.

RM: Well, Mick, welcome back to Earth with a bump. How are things for you at the moment? I see you are not wearing a head today – is that a fashion statement on the Other Side?

MS-R: Yeah, being headless is a bit in vogue ‘round my neck of the woods, but I’m not a big follower of fads – it’s all bollocks. I’m not wearing my head simply because some chuffing sheister nicked it centuries ago and I never found a decent replacement.

RM: Hmm, ouch, I see. What happened to it?

MS-R: I don’t really want go in to it because it all feels like another lifetime to me. I’ve moved on since then. But, basically, a group of gravediggers called the Shite Cubists dug me up and took my head. They were a big bunch of crooks at the time and got up to all kinds of shit.


RM: But surely that was illegal? Why weren’t they caught and hung, drawn in pencil and dunked into gooey liquid and put on show at the Sarky and Malarkey gallery for violent offenders?

MS-R: Well, they managed to blag everyone that they were recycling body bits in the name of Art. I mean, how anyone fell for it, I don’t know. But people were pretty stupid back then. Not much has changed, that's for sure.


RM: How do you feel about your skull now being made of platinum and encrusted with diamonds and sold for a moderate Earth fortune?

MS-R: Not good, I can tell you. No.1 - I could do without the flaming publicity. I was chilled out on Cloud 9 before all this. And No.2, I’ve had it up to here (Mick raises a rotten hand to his collar) with being exploited. I mean, these people are messing with my head - literally. And who is this bloke Damien Turdst, what right has he got to bleed my image rights dry? How the hell would he feel if I came down to his castle in Devon with a big rusty sickle and said, “Alright, mate, I’m here for your head because I’ve got this exhibition coming up in Heavenox Square in St James's and my manager Dank Dumpy needs something a bit fresh. Swoosh. See you later.” Not happy, I bet.

RM: I see that the celebrated art historian Rudi Fuchsup has called Hirst’s skull “celestial” and a “victory over decay”. You’re clearly someone who knows about decay, do you agree?

M-SR: Fuchsup is talking out of his big fat decay tube. I tell ya, man, these art people make me want to kill myself. The bullshit they come out with. And people believe ‘em!

RM: Now that the skull has been bought, do you have any message for the buyers and indeed Mr Hirst.


M-SR: Oh, yeah. For the love of God give me my fucking head back, you little shits.


Part Two of this interview “The years before I lost my head” continues soon…

Fair Plays To Yee

As much as it pains me not to be moaning in a Monday morning Post, one must give credit where credit is due: the wretched Ryanair seems to be on top of its game and provided a faultless service from Stansted to Oslo at the weekend. Easy check ins, on time departures, early arrivals both ways. All for sixty-something quid per head. What more could a penny-pinching passenger wish for? They now even have a fully functioning "Priority Seating" plan which kept the Artist and I out of the demeaning seat scrum for a few extra pounds.

A couple of minor questions: why would owner Michael O'Leary spend $10 billion on a stack of new planes - and boast about all this in the rubbish in-flight magazine - when he totally messed them up on delivery. Tell me now, who in their right mind would splash out that kind of dosh and then say: "D'yee know what dees planes need to loiven dem up is some broight yellow head-rests and panels. Dat'll froighten de loife out of dem fecking passengers."

Seriously, who the hell thinks screaming canary yellow fittings are a good way to decorate a plane. Pass dat derre sick bag.

And is it really necessary to fleece your customers so gratuitously for the in-flight refreshment service? A sky-high £2.80 for a micro tin of Bavaria piss lager? Only an idiot would pay so much.

That'll be me then.

Lighter Than Ryan Air

Wish me luck, I'm heading off on a Ryanair flight today. This is despite vowing two years ago, after a miserable journey from Pisa, never to travel with them again.

Back then, I said I would happily pay whatever extra it costs to avoid being buffeted along by the elbows and shoulders of sweating, wheezing fellow travellers, as we were herded to a shock yellow seat for the joy of flying to the appalling shrill of in-flight advertising over the Tannoy. What a way to treat your customers.

But what did it for me with Ryanair was the baggage weight charade at check-in at Pisa. My relatively minimal holiday baggage had beefed up a touch, thanks to a paltry, single case of fine Tuscan red I had sourced from a small vineyard outside Montepuliciano. To take it home, I would have to pay excess baggage which negated any previous saving. The Artist and I shuffled off and re-arranged the bags to sneakily spread the load into our hand luggage. It felt cheap and pathetic, yet while we did this, we watched several people check in without a hitch after us despite clearly having eaten their life's quota of pizza and pasta while on holiday.

Tell me, where is the fairness in penalising passengers who might be, hmmm, on the slimmer side for carrying a few extra pounds in a bag, when Mr and Mrs Golightly are packing an added, say, ten stones between them around their midriffs and derrieres?

Well, I'm heading off on Ryanair for this weekend break because no other airline goes to this destination at anything near a reasonable rate. To avoid putting bags in the hold and to keep within the hand luggage weight, I have studied the baggage dimensions and restrictions on the Ryanair website like a swot in A-level week. God help me. Consequently, I am travelling lighter than ever in my life. Robair - no frills indeed.

Fifty Quid's Worth of Bile

On such a glorious morning, after such a privileged chance to jog by the river to awaken my world, I really should apologise for stopping by to let my bile dribble across your screens. But I must return to the chuffing C-c-CON-gestion Charge (Blog 1476a/delta.doc).

I got a nasty, neat note from the bastards running the big bad Transport For London computer yesterday demanding fifty quid. It was a shock and it took some remembering, but then I realised that Yes I should indeed be fined - for having the imbecilic indecency to be human for a moment last week and behave spontaneously.

I fleetingly re-routed a weekend escape trip out of London to buy presents for some children. A modest little something that took me to a toy shop on the Kings Road before I headed out of the Smoke. My mind temporarily slipped from the disgusting Big Brother programme that has been forcefully up-loaded into the brains of all K&C residents since the introduction of the Extension Zone last February: think, plan, pay before you do anything. Or they will stick it to you.

This is no way to live. I know I should have taken my unfair punishment in one instant hit by paying a year's subscription to the Thieving F-uffing Liars when this sorry lie was first spun. Instead I have let them mug me whenever my guard is down. You see, I have forgotten before and I will probably forget again. Because that is what humans do and what machines will never do.

Tell me, why is it not possible to alert you when you have been in the Zone? A text message, an email? Surely this is possible but, of course, not profitable, so why would they do it. TFL rely on people being human, so they can get you. Well, they can shove my fifty quid right up their big fat Ethernet port. I hope it makes them happy. Ken, you are a complete C-c-con.

I hate this scheme and I hate the people behind it. Above all, I hate the way it makes me feel. Watched. Powerless. Robbed. Angry.


Thank you for listening. Do send me the bill for the rag to wipe away the bile!

Phew, I'm not so vein afterall

"I'm so vein, you'll probably think this Blog is about me ..."


It's not often you get an invitation to be a guinea pig in the name of cosmetic science research. A righteous cause if ever there was one. "Rob, do you fancy getting your veins zapped?" asked Sarah Chapman, a dear friend and respected skincare therapist (soon to be tycoon). "Erm, well, super offer, thanks. But are you saying I actually have veins that need to be zapped?" As if I didn't know.

Now, amongst the legion of freebies I have shamelessly accepted in the course of journalistic enterprise, this has to be one of the oddest. (Actually, a week on the QE2 with Terry Duckworth takes some beating). Naturally, like all well-trained free-loading hacks, I said Yes - although my real motivation, you see, was to help Chapman train a new therapist and had absolutely nothing to do with the red insignia gradually appearing upon my cheeks and nose following years of strenuous bar work.

And, so, I stretched out on a treatment bed at the 'Skinesis' clinic in Chelsea, with the sound of clinking crystal from Daphne's below drifting through the window, while three women examined my face with a special glow lamp to reveal the tracks of my decadent past. Much to my amazement, my broken veins are not bad at all and my fears that I am heading for payback in the shape of a port nose that could light up the Embankment are ill-founded. That's not to say my hard partying has gone unnoticed. Heaven forbid.

For about 20 minutes, the new assistant deftly ran a laser probe across various patches of my face and nose while I "Ooh'ed" and "Argh'ed" like a wimp at each and every light nip of the skin. And then it was done.

Today, those areas are red and blotchy, like I have had a good go at some spots in the mirror, but by tomorrow they will be gone. And, then, I will be free to go out in pursuit of new badges to represent my partying heart.

OK, call me vain, but at least you won't call me veiny.