I am not best pleased with Graham Norton. I did not expect, although it would have been polite, him to telephone me to apologise in response to my letter of complaint, but there was no mention of me on his latest programme, even though he did attempt to cover Liz’s recent holiday. I could have helped him so much.
He compounded the issue by excreting on about the bloody song contest, but as with Mike, I expect he has some contractual obligation to do so. The rest of you should know better. His guests were Gerard Depardieu and a young lady called “Tori Amos”, who seems to have plucked her sobriquet (have you ever plucked your sobriquet, missus?) from the ethers and combined the world’s most anachronistic political organisation with one of the Old Testament’s leading bores, about whom I have written elsewhere. Well, he has had his chance. I shall not be appearing on next week’s instalment with him, and may go to talk to Oprah instead.
I may give him the benefit of the doubt. Gerry was once in a film with my lookalike, Andie McDowell, and my turning up may have confused the poor old chap, so I will not be too harsh on the BBC when they coming begging me in the week.
On the subject of television, I was sorry to see the end of the current series of “The Wire”. I still miss much of the dialect, but it is so good. Almost up to NYPD Blue standards, but so much darker. I think that Bunk may well finish up being my favourite tv detective. There is only going to be one more series, because the writers have run out of ideas. Not very professional in my view. Not having anything to write about has never stood in the way of my churning out this drivel.