Give us a break BBC

One of the great joys of watching the BBC in the old days was viewing programmes without commercial breaks. Not any more. Today every programme break is filled with trailers for other programmes and other BBC channels.

Yesterday these trailers were considered more important than the scenes in the House of Commons as Prime Minister Blair left office.

These BBC advertisements cost licence payers' money to make and we don't need them. All the information is in our newspapers or online. If the BBC is not allowed to run advertisements by its charter, then it should not run in-house ads either. They are just as annoying as those for Daz and cheese spread which at least bring in revenues unlike those for BBC programmes.

Once there was just a revolving globe on our screens for a few seconds. I could handle that. I don't like all this twirly logo stuff either with red dancers and swimming hippos. Neither do I care much for the Lambie-Nairn BBC 2 logos. In fact Lambie-Nairn has a lot to answer for since the branding company has made a pretty penny from the licence payers, care of the BBC over the years.

The sad thing about its involvement, if you look at the site, is that it seems to have worked.

Maybe this is why the BBC has become branding-obsessed. I say bring back the world.

And another thing - why do we need three commentators these days for every Wimbledon match? Isn't that overkill? No wonder our third-rate tennis players do so badly; they can't wait to hang up their rackets and get on telly.

Swan and chips

Spent the day on the River Avon looking at mink rafts among other things. These are not designed to give mink a Huckleberry Finn adventure. Initially they're intended to find out whether mink are in the vicinity. A basket covered with a layer of clay is placed in a tunnel on the raft and if the paw prints reveal a mink in the neighbourhood a trap is placed on the raft.

Any mink caught in the trap is shot with an air pistol using a pointed round. The game conservancy people who worked on the method used a Yellow Pages directory to test the penetration of the round. "The blunt round reached chartered accountants," said the officer showing us the trap. "But the pointed one got as far as Estate Agents."

I saw a mink the other day on the River Wey. Should it suffer the same fate as the estate agents? It's tough for the mink but the presence of mink is tough for our water voles that have been disappearing at an alarming rate.

Apparently the notion that otters drive off any mink is a myth. They can and do co-exist together on a number of rivers.

There was a discussion also on swans. There's been a problem with swans on some chalk streams such as the River Wylye. I've seen great gangs of them in the fields. These are non-breeding birds that have molted their flight feathers. The eat large amounts of ranunculus that provides habitat for the insects on which trout feed. More than that, the weed helps to maintain water levels.

I remember when swan populations were declining 30 years ago when lead shot was allowed among anglers. Since its ban the swan population has made a dramatic recovery. Personally I'd be happy to see some of them farmed for food. I had some swan once and it was very good meat.

But I suppose it would be unpopular. It's a beautiful bird, granted, but ducks and pheasant are beautiful too and we eat them. As it is, a lot of swan eggs are pricked on the QT by river keepers. But that seems wasteful. Swan and chips. Why not? Then again, maybe estate agents would be more palatable.

Saving face on Facebook

The Facebook nightmare continues. It's listing more and more people as friends. One or two genuine friends are asking me if I was getting desperate or something. I mean I like people generally. I'll chat with anyone... unless I'm feeling anti-social when the fishing comes in handy. Mostly I talk to the dog but he's not on Facebook - Dogbook maybe.

I wonder what a Dogbook entry would look like? On the Dogbook wall there would be multiple comments saying "Woof", "Arf", and an occasional "Grrrr." They'd send each other peemails. Well they do that already. Our dog isn't happy unless he's checked all his peemails every day.

I digressed. It's not the "friends" who are listed on Facebook that worries me: it's me. I mean how many people have been looking down their emails only to find one from Richard Donkin asking them to be his friend simply because they once sent him an email? How sad is that?

But you can't undo what's done. You can't send messages to people saying: "Sorry but we both know we're not really friends so lets call it off." Besides some of my Facebook friends, well quite a lot of them in fact, are really very attractive. With friends like these.... no, really, sending out that message was an accident. Honest!

Not all the friends are very friendly. One of them is a PR guy with a grudge. There must be plenty of them out there, all wondering why I suddenly want to be their friend.

So why did you do it Donkin, you may ask? I don't recall doing anything. I just had an email and felt curious. Maybe I clicked something. It's like a web-based Pandora's Box. Once started, this thing just balloons. I'm wondering if I can turn it into a column somehow. There has to be a recruitment angle here.

Ah! Have just found another old fart. My old FT mucker and well known technophobe Jimmy Burns has joined and he's older than me.

Little brother is going to be everywhere

Remember how George Orwell warned about Big Brother in 1984? Well he got it all wrong. Big Brother is nothing compared to the power of "little brother" images described here.

Little Brother - my name for the technology - is all about harnessing the combined power of thousands upon thousands of photographs from domestic to professional images that may have been taken of the same subjects. Imagine a Wickipedia of images, each of them tagged with notes and bits of information posted by millions of people.

Imagine a detailed photograph of your house with labels saying who lives there, who used to live there, who built it, how much it sold for, where the stones came from, the name of the rose growing over the door. All this is possible with the technology described here.

Big Brother was all about the power of one. This is about the combined power of millions.

Friends I didn't know I had

So there I was, minding my own business this morning, writing yet another column, when I checked my email and there was one from Nikki Woodroffe asking if I would be her friend on Facebook. Well I'm already her friend so that seemed OK.

Anyway I signed up and all hell broke loose. I'm getting friends, old faces and people I didn't know I knew popping up all over the place. I'm wondering if accidentally I pressed the button which allowed the system to approach all the 700-odd people on my email log to be my Facebook friend. How embarrassing.

The strangest reaction came from my eldest son, John, who didn't think it was at all cool that his dad might be listed as one of his friends. Anyway he's confirmed me.

Weak ties

Some I don't know from Adam but some I do. Most are in the category of "weak ties" described in this column that refers to the work of Mark Granovetter. That's OK. As the column says, weak ties are good. But how many people are real friends?

It's hard to define a real friend. I suppose it's someone who will help you out when times are tough. I've never had it tough so it's hard to know who my real friends are. But I think I know who they are. My best friend above all others is my wife, Gill. I know that might sound a bit corny but it's true.

Alan Friedman

But there are many more good friends - the sort you enjoy sharing time with. I like friends who tell interesting stories or who surprise me with the things they say or do. I shouldn't admit this, but I quite like outrageous people and some who are really not nice people but who are amusing and have a certain edginess. Alan Friedman, if you ever read this, you know who I'm talking about.

I've lost touch with Friedman. He was outrageous in many respects and, like many such people, would neglect his friends. But he was marvellous company. He introduced me to the wild side of New York that I would have never seen otherwise.


Star Ship Enterprise

He was gay of course, but a bloke's bloke all the same. We called on him in Paris a few years back. In the hallway each wall was painted with a different prime colour with bright green on the fourth wall. There were leopard skin chairs in front of the fire. The telephones were shaped like the Star Ship Enterprise and, above the dining table where there is usually a light, there hung a glass bowl with a goldfish swimming inside. It was all very decadent. But that was Friedman.

We worked together a lot on the Arms to Iraq story in the early days where we found a conspiracy around every corner. I lost touch with him but saw he was doing a business slot on Italian TV. Friedman - one of the great characters of the FT. Not every one's cup of tea. but I liked him.

I notice his Wikipedia entry has aroused suspicion. I'm not surprised. I can see one or two dodgy claims. He almost certainly wrote it himself. I notice also that it's all "was" stuff. I wonder what he's up to now?

Camp Dick 2007

The idea for Camp Dick started over a pint or two in the Angel and Crown, Richmond, before one of the winter internationals. There was my 50th birthday coming up and I wanted to do something a bit different. The birthday itself would pass quietly on the river in Scotland (well, not without a whisky or two) so I thought I'd be greedy and have another in the summer.

I like to think of myself as an outdoors type. A field would do nicely. One of my favourite fields is a bit of National Trust land at Golden Cap in Dorset. By way of facilities it has a tap which is all you need as far as I'm concerned. The rest of one's needs can be handled with a neatly dug hole in the ground.

Plain Bonkers

"The problem with that, Dick," said a rugby mate(my rugby mates and northern friends all call me Dick), "Is that some people will balk at a hole in the ground." In fact some people, particularly those hovering around their 50th year, regard the idea of swapping a comfortable bed for a drafty tent as plain bonkers.

But not where I come from. In God's own country we're brought up to appreciate the hard life and there's nothing we like better than to sit around and chew the fat about it.

Mushy peas

I wanted a kind of northern party: good beer, mushy peas, pies, black pudding with plenty of sleeting rain ideally on a wind-swept moor.

"Why don't you come and use our field?" said Seamus who lives on a wind swept moor.

You know how some of the daftest ideas seem credible after a few pints of beer? Well it sounded a great idea. What's more, at the next match he said that Kate, his wife, had given it her stamp of approval. If Kate liked the idea we just had to do it.

Big shorts

Fortunately we had invited enough people who enjoy camping. People like Stuart Fletcher who relished the opportunity to get out his primus stove, maps and big shorts. Then there were the kids who found that sitting round a camp fire chatting and joking had the edge on instant messaging.

It helped that Seamus and Kate are both Scout leaders so we could borrow some tents, benches, trestle tables and cooking gear. My mother-in-law meanwhile had taken care of the vital mushy peas that had been steeping away at her house for some time. I like mushy peas - always have. But Gill doesn't like them so there's only about three times in our marriage when I've had them the proper way, cooked with a ham shank.

In case anyone was worried about the weather, I said on the invite that it would be good. Well you have to be optimistic.

The idea was that everyone would arrive on the Friday night for a gentle bedding in, with a walk the next day and more of a party on the Saturday. As it turned out the weather forecast was not good but we seemed to have been blessed with the one reasonable weather hole in the British Isles on the Friday so we got stuck in to the beer from the start. It was a good do.

It was one of those dos where the conversation starts where it left off 15 or 20 years earlier, where you can sing a song badly and everyone sings with you, where something goes wrong and no-one gives a damn.

One of those dos where everyone mucks in without being asked. Where washing up gets done, sausages get cooked and spills get cleared up as if by magic. Yes, there's a lot of hard work, but it's spread around and the work adds to the pleasure in some strange way that defies understanding. All I know is that it works.

Royston Vasey

We hiked over to Marsden which some may recognise as the setting for the "local shop" in Royston Vasey from the League of Gentlemen TV series. The pub at Tunnel End is difficult for parking so ideal for walkers. We even had sunshine for the trek back over the moor.

The mushy peas, meanwhile, had been stored in the garage where the temperature was rising. By the time we got back they were fermenting away like a Hollywood swamp. Remember the scene in Psycho where Norman Bates dumps the car in to the muddy lagoon? Well they were like that.

As the peas had been converted to compost, there was nothing for it but a dash to Tesco by Kate and Gill grabbing all the cans they could. "Sorry," the girl tells them at the checkout. "Company policy says you can't buy more than 10 of any item." So they have to do relay trips until they have enough.

Some of the nicknames seem a bit odd now. Gooch, for example, has not had his Graham Gooch moustache for many years. But he's still Gooch. "Captain" Briggs wore the peaked captain's hat just the once but it was enough for life. Rocky is Rocky because he's sort of Rocky. I've forgotten how Godber got his name but it was needed. Like each of the aforementioned plus "Mil" - the other one - his first name is Steve. There are just too many Steves.

Vegetarian option

On the last night it rained a bit but we clung to that campfire like limpets, sticking on more wood that dried the front of you as quickly as you got wet. In the end the song sheets were too soggy to read and the walking had taken its toll - see Simon's account here with a picture of the mushy peas.

Next morning it was the Yorkshire vegetarian option of double black pudding with sausage and egg, then down with the tents. It was a good craic, as they say in Ireland.There's nothing like meeting old friends. If any are reading this now, a hearty thanks for coming along and making it what it was. But the biggest thanks go to Seamus and Kate for making a daft idea reality. We had a good one. Looking at the weather today it was a close run thing.


Pictures of Camp Dick here. It should be easy to download any you might want.

Jungle book

Just got an email about a new management book called Tarzan and Jane: How to thrive in the new corporate jungle.

If you plan to rush out for this one prepare yourself for what the blurb calls the "four crucial strategies" for success.

What are these insightful snippets of advice without which you cannot venture in to the jobs marketplace?

Here's one of them: "Be bloody good." Yes that's it. That's the magical formula for making it in your career: be bloody good. How many trees died to pass on this gobsmacking revelation?

Just in case you may be a bit unclear about its meaning, it explains that being bloody good means "excelling at your craft and keeping ahead of the game."

So what are the other three crucial strategies? Well, since you ask they are:

• Turn up the volume: clarifying your personal brand fit for the age of the sound bite.

• Don’t just sit there: connecting with your market and getting known.

• The Inner Game: reflecting on the aspirations, beliefs, values and passions that are right for you.

Enlightened now? What would we do without this stuff?

Isn't it good, Norwegian wood

It's been a while since I spent some time fishing the midsummer nights in Norway. That was on the Laerdal, mentioned here. And there was cod fishing here at the time of the 1998 World Cup. I watched Michael Owen's goal againsat Argentina on TV in Bodo.

Last weekend it was Trondheim, this time to fish the Orkla, the Forra and the Stjordal. We were looking for a big salmon. Did we find one? My full report will be in the Weekend FT on Saturday, published in my fishing section shortly afterwards.

I was fishing with some class acts. It's a little bit like Pro-Am golf where the journeyman gets to play with the professionals. So I learned quite a bit and plan to put some of those lessons to good use in Newfoundland next week.

Fishing for big salmon is really a study in obsession. These fish don't give themselves up. One fisherman died on the Orkla while we were there. I'm not sure it's worth the ultimate sacrifice but there are those who will fish until they drop.

You read a lot about climbing deaths but the risks for anglers are just as great if not greater. The water was fast running and icy cold. I ended up fishing in my pyjama bottoms to add an extra layer.

As always happens I came back needing more gear - a better reel and some serious sinking tips.

All this salmon fishing means the trout have been neglected somewhat apart from a great day on the River Dever and some short visits to the Wey, not far from where I live. There is never enough time to fish. But in Norway there is a full 24-hours of daylight at this time of year if that's what you want. Then there are the marvellous wood cabins and the smell of pine. Our cabin was candle-lit with a gas fridge: a blog-free environment.

I like Norway. Most of all I like the hot dogs, the milk chocolate, Lupins, red squirrels, pine cabins, painted wooden cupboards and the fishing. But I don't like the midges.

Tipping point

One thing that troubled me in New York last week, and it seems to get worse every time I go, is the approach to tipping. It has become more than an expectation now.

Take the cab driver who took me from the airport to the hotel on a standard rate of $45. "Most people give me $60 or $55," he says at the end of the ride before I had even opened my wallet. I had planned to give him $50 but gave him $55 to keep him happy. He didn't say thank you; didn't say anything.

Plain greedy

Then there was the waitress with the restaurant bill for $31. I gave her two $20 bills and she asked me if I wanted any change. This sort of thing is plain greedy. I know that waiting staff are paid poor basic rates and that the taxation authorities factor in tips to their pay calculations. But tipping has to remain discretionary.

Tip expectations used to be in the region of 15 per cent but this appears to have gone up. I'm told that in some of the swankier restaurants people sometimes tip as much as 50 per cent of the cost of the meal.

It wasn't as if I had experienced great service. But I just can't get used to the American service culture. In fact I'm not sure it really exists. It's more of a money culture. I complained in a previous blog about the prices attached by the hotel to internet access and things such as the gym that normally are included in the bill. It even extended to paying $7 to leave your bags for the day after checking out. And they call this the "Land of the Free."

I notice also that in most cases the dollar has become the minimum denomination. Bars and restaurants generally don't bother returning coins.

Mean Brits

I know that the Brits can be perceived as mean. The reality is that we have a different attitude to tipping. I would prefer people to be paid a good basic wage so that they don't need to go hunting down tips. I don't need to be asked every two minutes if everything is OK. If it isn't I'll call them over and tell them.

We tip in the UK too but London cabbies don't go asking for tips in the same way. I notice now though that people are tipping in pubs. You never used to tip the bar staff. If you did that you'd be tipping the proprietor as often as not and they were already coining it in.

I think I need a tip or two on how to deal with tipping. Is the answer to swallow hard and dig deep? Or is it time to make a stand?

Bragging rights

Never boast about yourself, my mum always said. So I never did. Instead over the years I have polished my skills at self-deprecation to the stage where I believe my own press.

I write about the fish I lose. If I fall in the river everybody gets to know. I can't spell, can't remember things and sometimes forget before I get to the end of a sentence. I fluff my lines in a presentation and you have a big laugh at my expense.

So I stumble along as the little guy. I pack my job in and nothing bad happens. Quite the opposite; lots of good things happen. I launch my web site with no real business strategy and it brings in business. I start a blog and my web site visitor numbers really start to take off - 17,000 last month with more than 1,000 visitors a day for the first time on peak days. Thank you for looking in. Take note sponsors.

Then this week I get my copy of Human Resources Magazine and find that I have been ranked at number 10 in its Top 100 most influential people in HR list, and one of the five highest climbers. This in a year that I seemed to have done more fishing than writing. They sent me a little certificate. I haven't had a certificate since swimming for the school team at one of those cheapskate swimming galas where they couldn't run to a medal.

Oscar ceremony

Of course, if I hadn't made the list I would be saying: "What nonsense. Why is so-and-so not there?" I could give you many reasons why this listing doesn't matter or why it's undeserved but I'm not going to. Instead I'm going to do the Oscar ceremony thing and thank all those who voted for me.

The thing is, it's true what people say about work - a bit of recognition goes a long way. So if you are up there mum looking down, forgive the boasting.

I noticed that my old editor, Richard Lambert, now director general of the Confederation of British Industry is named at number 38. Now that isn't boasting anymore. It's gloating and unforgivable.

Fair boss

What I will say about Richard is that he was a fair boss. I remember the exchange we had at our first meeting when, as Deputy Editor, he was interviewing me for a job at the FT. He leaned back in his chair and asked:"Why should we employ you at the Financial Times?"

"I have no idea," I said. "But you asked me down here. I didn't apply for a job."

After that it was a sales talk. "You can do percentages," he said. "Yes," I lied. "Well that's all you need." It really was as simple as that.

First Class Travel

Where I come from there's only one way to fly.

Only at Argos

Call centre work has its moments. Only at Argos.

A coach speaks on performance

Here's a manager who has never minced his words. Tommy Lasorda, the baseball coach has plenty to say about performance, none of it printable.

Jack Welched

Thanks Mr Welch. I only came 3,000 miles and put on my best bib and tucker for the promise of an interview. Yes it was a promise. "Your people" met "my people" and we made a deal. I watched you at the conference speaking about integrity. Fine words but where was that interview? You talked a lot about values. I have a few of my own. One is that I keep my promises.

I didn't ask a question from the floor like that other journalist who had the temerity to suggest that your so-called Session Cs (ranking-style executive appraisals) had been rejected as unworkable by the rest of corporate America. You dismissed that in the same way that you ducked the question from the stage interviewer who asked you why you chose Jeff Immelt to succeed you at General Electric.

That's fair enough. You don't have to take criticism any more with your $700m net worth and annual earnings even in your "retirement" estimated at $10m a year from books, consultancy and what you pick up on the lecture circuit. Good luck to you.I don't care about any of that.

I sat through the session with the chief executives where you laid in to some of the guys round the table. But I didn't chip in because we were fixed to meet straight afterwards.

Spoilt brat

A Fortune reporter had the same deal but you walked out on her. Was it something she said? So I hear you saying you're done for the day. What's going on, I'm thinking? What about my questions? "Can we talk Mr Welch?" I ask.

"I'll speak off the record," you say. Not the deal but OK. "I want to ask you about Bob Nardelli." You wave your hand. "I'm not doing that," you say. "Let's talk about Session Cs then," I say. But you're off out of the door leaving a trail of embarrassed PR people and one less than amused chief executive in Lars Dalgaard, the boss of SuccessFactors, an up and coming performance management company that had brought you to its annual conference in New York.

I thought only pop stars and spoilt brat actors did this kind of thing.

I really did want to ask you about Bob Nardelli though. What I'm trying to get my head round is this: should I regard Mr Nardelli as a success? What indeed should he think about himself?

Here is a man who was a real "A" lister for you, who came within a whisker of getting the top job at GE and was snapped up soon afterwards to run Home Depot, the retailing giant.

By some standards Mr Nardelli did well at Home Depot taking revenue from £45bn in 2000 to $81bn in 2005. But that wasn't good enough for investors who had become accustomed to seeing the company double in size every four years.

Kicked out

He was ousted with a pay off worth $210m to cushion the blow. Some cushion. Still here was one of the corporate elite kicked out of two companies within the space of five years (you had made it clear that Nardelli would not be staying at GE after the succession had been announced).

I wondered what you thought about all this, what you thought indeed about the ever shortening tenure of chief executives in general. Isn't there something rotten at the heart of the capitalist system when high calibre people are tossed aside like that, pay off or no pay off? Will Bob Nardelli forever be regarded as the "nearly man"? What can that do for his esteem? These are not tough questions for you but they matter a lot to the next generation of executive talent .

I did quite a bit of reading up for this interview. I'd heard all those two cents stories you told on the stage and was wanting to get a bit deeper in to the Session Cs because, as you know, there is stuff happening in performance management that takes them on a notch or two. That's why we were here. Lars Dalgaard is moving appraisals to another level.

I wanted to explore all that but it didn't happen. I sometimes wonder why I do this stuff. I'm reminded of the remark Dorothy Parker wanted on her tombstone: "Wherever she went, including here, it was against her better judgement."

Second Life at IBM

I've just met someone called Tim Ringo who is Global Leader of Human Capital Management at IBM. That sounds pretty senior and it is, yet he has a boss of HR sitting above him. Imagine that - global leader and you have a boss who also has a boss above him. Leader of the universe I would guess.

With a name like Ringo he has been mistaken a few times for Ringo Starr although there is no resemblance. Tim does however look a bit like Val Kilmer (fatter around the jowls but film star perfection teeth. I'm talking about megga expensive dental work here). He also speaks a little like Kilmer did when he played Doc Holliday in Tombstone.

Tim says he has met Ringo Starr who told him that he did not like to be called Ringo and preferred Richard, his original Christian name.

I'm wondering, after this revelation, whether subliminally we were trying to create the Beatles when naming two of our sons John and George. I must have had some aversion to Paul since the other boy is called Rob and I would never entertain "Ringo" for myself.

Tim Ringo says that IBM is using Second Life, the Internet community, to do some of its employee induction. Apparently Sam Palmisano, the boss of IBM, has his own Second Life avatar. He wears a suit in Second Life for meetings and expects every other IBMer to wear a suit in the same meetings. No change there then.

New York, New York

Yup, I'm in New York this week for the first time in a few years. The cab driver told me a lot had changed but nothing has changed except that perhaps it has become a little bit tattier.

I had never thought of it like this before, but New York is very much a 20th century city and much of it is just as it was in the 1930s and 40s. Most of the so-called "modern art" in the Museum of Modern Art that I visited yesterday is not at all modern. The three Kandinskys painted for the foyer of the Chevrolet headquaters were completed in the 1900s.

New York hotel rooms always seem behind the times with old fashioned TV sets and telephones. I hate the way also that they try to get you to pay for everything. Internet access at the Sheraton, for example, is $17 for 24 hours. I haven't found a free connection yet.

I'm here for a management conference and to interview JacK Welch who isn't nearly as big news as he used to be when he was chief executive of General Electric. But his legacy remains and I want to ask him about Session Cs.

Session Cs is the name given to the system of appraisal he introduced among GE executives where teams were evaluated each year and graded on their performance. The harsh message for the botom 10 per cent was to shape-up or ship out.

The system, now sometimes referred to as "forced ranking", has created a performance obsessed culture in the US which is filtering in to British companies.

It's not just companies either. Look at the way the US TV series, The Apprentice has been imported on to British screens. The "vote off" has been adopted in all kinds of TV formats such as Big Brother, The Weakest Link, Hell's Kitchen, Pop Idol and Strictly Come Dancing.

Hell's Kitchen is playing on Fox TV in the US now where you can see Gordon Ramsey ranting at these teams of US cooks. They're all too terrified to do anything well so their cooking is a disaster.

Is this the way we want to manage our companies? Is this the way we want to manage our lives and our relationships? When we go to the pub with our friends should we vote off the one who doesn't contribute much to the conversation? Imagine if the bottom of class was kicked out of school each term. There'd be no-one left by the sixth form.

Performance has many traits and subtleties. Look what happens when there is pressure to perform in the bedroom. Not a lot. Yes,I think Jack has some explaining to do.

Giant pink tea leaves - the Olympic dream

So what do you think to the new branding for the 2012 London Olympics? Not a lot by all accounts. Some people think they have better ideas.

I'm inclined to agree with them. It looks like a bad migraine or giant pink tea leaves. It just doesn't do it for me.

I even think it overshadows what hitherto must have been the world's worst sporting logo - World Cup Willie. Lord Coe should go back to the drawing board while there's still time.

Fashion fascism

There's something about reading the Daily Telegraph on a morning that makes me want to go out and strangle the nearest squirrel. Since the squirrels in my neighbourhood are far too sensible to come within catapult range of my front door the only catharsis available is the blog.

The first thing that had me choking on my cereal today was a review of Trevor Nunn's Royal Shakespeare Company production of King Lear. Deprived of his leading lady at the start of the run, Nunn chose not to invite newspaper reviewers before her recovery. So they whinged. The Telegraph's reviewer, Charles Spencer, was still whinging this morning.

"Only yesterday did Trev graciously condescend to let the press in to review it," wrote Spencer. Hang on a minute Mr Spencer. You and every other journalist could have seen the play at any time had you done what every other theatre goer would do and bought a ticket.

Had you done so you could have provided the service to your readers that they deserve . But you didn't do that because, along with the rest of the press, you think you have a God given right to a free ticket when, in fact, the review invitation is a privilege not a right. The arrogance of journalists.

But Spencer was only raising the temperature of my blood. What brought it to boiling point was an article by Celia Walden who wrote the cattiest piece about middle aged men who wear jeans.

"At 45, it goes without saying that all jeans must be surrendered to a charity of your choice," she wrote.

My charity of choice is devoted to ending any further wastage of precious wood pulp on drivel like this. Sadly this charity does not yet exist so I will spend as much of my savings as I choose on whatever clothes that I choose and that includes jeans.

We all have a right to choose. Ms Walden, daughter of the former Tory MP, George Walden, has revealed something about her own taste in dating the bungling former editor of the Daily Mirror, Piers Morgan, whose own good judgement extended to buying shares in a company ahead of a Mirror story that tipped those self-same shares as a good buy. It looks a great match. They can wallow together in their mutual prejudices.