Finally some good news

No child porn charges to be brought against Forest Gate victim

First they thought he was a terrorist. Then a Brazilian. Finally a child pornographer. Goodness. Next week they'll arrest him over the sinking of the Belgrano and the disappearance of Lord Lucan.

I predict a front cover of the Daily Express will link him, somehow, to Diana.

So that was Blake's 7

Well, goodness me. The last series of Blake's 7 is strange.

For a start, someone's flicked the switch from "camp" to "gay".

It opens with the crew being rescued by Dorian, a sexy rogue who achieves immortality by luring young men to his glittering cave.

Fans of Blake's 7 please note:
- Yes, Dorian is genuinely sexy, rather than just "sexy for someone in Blake's 7".
- No, he's not the only one.

The last year of Blake's 7 features genuine boy totty. Servalan is no longer the most attractive man in the show. Suddenly, the series is full of atheltic young men, dashing guards, and a slick of hair gel.

There's an S&M computer called Slave ("thank you, Master"), and vile computer Orac has started behaving like a prissy queen who's had their drag show cancelled.

Best of all, we gain Glynis Barber as Soolin. A very attractive woman with a slightly fat arse. The camera is fascinated by her slightly fat arse. Sadly, she and Dayna have to share the same character, so she spends weeks sat on her fat arse.

Sadly, the crew get a new spaceship that only looks good when it's been blown up, and spend 13 miserable episodes failing to get what they want. Every single time. Honest. They are rubbish.

Each week they meet exciting people, and fail to rob them, or recruit them, or conquer their enemies.

Servalan's still there, but looks increasingly bored at having to execute Fat Gay Comedy Villan Of The Week. She's starting to remind me of Gina G. I can't explain that, but she is.

And then there's the last episode. Which is magnificent bobbins. 45 minutes of not much in a wood, followed by 5 minutes of slo-mo slaughter.

Possibly the best thing about it, surprisingly, is the commentary track to Assassin, where half-way through Jacqueline Pearce unleashes a bitch fest on an actress which lasts till the closing credits.

I shall miss Blake's 7. It's still the oddest thing the BBC made - it hurled itself at greatness and missed spectacularly. And I still want to have a go on the Liberator...

Meanwhile, the Affair...

The Affair texts: "How awful! I'm home alone."

Irritatingly, it takes me nearly two hours from door to shag. This is all London's fault. Why, when you're heading somewhere important (toy shops, interesting meetings, and the affair), does London just grind to a halt? Trains stop running, cabs vanish from the street, and bus drivers look the other way.

But how pleasant it is, to be hurrying through leafy South London on an Autumn afternoon with only one thing on your mind.

Discovery: the Affair is worried about limescale.

Devil Wears Prada

Amazing film. But a bit too close to home. I spent the entire film whimpering with fear and sympathy.

FAVOURITE BIT: When she has to get the next Harry Potter book

WORST BIT: The cop-out ending. There's a really, really good ending to this film. 5 minutes earlier. Instead, there's a warm feel-good coda, a bit of redemption, and the unlikeliest newspaper editor in history.

Archers Update: Aw noooo

Ruth and Sam the cowherd are enjoying adulterous kisses in the cowshed.

RUTH: Oooh Sam.

SAM: Oh Ruth.

(wet endless kissing noises)

RUTH: Oh this is wrong, Sam, wrong.

SAM: Oh, no, Ruth, it's right.

RUTH: Oh Sam!

SAM: Oh Ruth!

COW: Moooo.

The law won

Last week's lawyer was true to his word, and summoned me to a hotel in the middle of nowhere.

The tax conference seemed as vile as you could imagine, with The Lawyer managing to smuggle me into his room in between seminars.

After we'd tried out the entire bathroom (including shower caps. what the hell are they?), The Lawyer announced he was off for a Working Supper with his tax chums in the restaurant.

"You could always come down to the restaurant on your own, you know. You can distract me."

So I did.

There he sat, at one end of the restaurant surrounded by endless talk about accomplished children, violin lessons, ponies and holiday homes. And, at the other end, I sat reading Vanity Fair and cadging cigarettes off the barman.

I ended up, sat in a wood-panelled lounge in front of a roaring fire, dozing off gently with a pot of coffee, waiting for The Lawyer to finish his meal.

"I feel like a hooker!" I texted a friend in giddy excitement.
"Hookers get paid," came the reply.

Next week, he's visiting a client in Harlech. He'd like me to attend.

Top facts about The Lawyer
#1) He also teaches Karate
#2) He once flew a client's ashes to Iceland.

Most worrying URL....?

http://www.money4yourstory.co.uk

"As a single working mom with two kids and a divorce from hell behind me, I do understand how difficult life can be. So please don't be shy to call me and tell me your story."

Quite the best West Wing review ever..

It's bloody hard to know what to say about West Wing series 7. It's got the wrong wedding, a star drops dead during filming, and it's no longer really about The West Wing - and yet it's still amazing.

It's still really hard to pin down - especially with The Presidential Debate episode in which the Alan Alda and Jimmy Smits debated in character live on TV. Wow. And yet, yawn. I don't think I'll ever know, so instead I'll hand you over to the staggering review from summary site TV Without Pity:

"The Debate - At the debate, Vinick and Santos throw out all the rules. We decide to follow their example, and recap a completely different show. It was just boring. To remedy that, I will be mixing this recap of The West Wing with a recap of the third episode of Mile High, the sexy British series about a group of sexy flight attendants who work for a sexy airline. It has none of the good qualities of The West Wing -- the acting and writing are atrocious, and the show is as meaningful as a bite of cotton candy. But at least its producers haven't forgotten that their main job is to entertain us. Plus, it's sexy.... [ More ]"

Read the whole thing. It's hilarious.

How I got my mojo back

"I should let you know I'm very shy," said the lawyer as he threw me onto the bed.

***

I've always believed that if someone you take a fancy to leaves a bar on their own, you should follow them and say hello. On the few occasions that i've put it into practice, it's worked out very well.

Last night was a lawyer who seems to own most of Derby. He's coming back next week to address a tax conference. I've been ordered to turn up at his hotel and wait. There's a four poster bed invovled. How exciting! I'm being treated like a cheap Latvuanian prostitute.

Don't grow old...

My parent's neighbour rings me. She's 84.

"Do you know - I can't get travel insurance? Can you believe it? You get over 81, and all of a sudden they get really picky. They won't even let me go paragliding any more..."

Commander In Chief

Sometimes, you forget how good The West Wing is and need reminding. Thank heavens, then for Commander in Chief, the Asda knock-off of the West Wing.

Whereas The West Wing's take was "Don't you wish real politicians were as wise and witty?", Commander In Chief's is "But look! The President's a girrrrl!"

Sadly, this doesn't feature Reese Witherspoon or Nicole Richie as the First Lady, but instead Geena Davies. She's perky and mumsy and actually rather good in the role. She's a bit feisty.

When having a row with evil senator Donald Sutherland, she snips that he's worried about "that whole once-a-month, will-she-or-won't-she press the button thing."

And, when the dying president demands to know why she's redeployed the entire Navy while he was in a coma she sighs, "I was bored. I'd read all the magazines."

So, we like her, and we adore that her husband gets stuck with the title First Lady (on his office, "It's a bit, er, pink, isn't it?").

But the show is still bobbins of the first water. Whereas the West Wing spins itself out in unimaginable complexity and cleverness, Commander In Chief is more straightforward. And, as the title implies, it loves its guns.

Then there's the vile First Family, composed of hunky teen track star and Little Miss Sulky. They're going to get very tiresome. Unless the teen track star plays all his scenes topless, and Little Miss Sulky plays all hers strapped in a burka.

But with The West Wing over, it'll have to do.

Home Cures

So, the Nurse and I tried to cure indigestion with sodomy. It didn't work.

"Well, it does for prenancy, but when you think about it," tutted the Nurse, "It's like trying to mend a puncture with a bicycle pump."

He's changed since he stopped working on the mental health unit and started pulling pints in an East London drugs den.

Steve's Secret Bar

"Let's go for one more," said Steve.

It was 1 am. It was SoHo. Steve is an ex. Quite a charming one.

"I know this little place..."

Steve always knows places. Evenings with him have involved pub quizzes in pubs with horse brasses, serving alcopops in a twink bar, and crying quietly on an art installation while breaking up again.

We were walking down one of those SoHo streets. Steve knocked on a door. This wasn't like a normal door leading to a swish club. It was a battered door next to another door which said "Model".

The door opened barely, like you see in speakeasy movies. A tiny bouncer dragged Steve inside and shut the door. There was a pause. Then the door opened again and Steve grabbed me.

We went down some filthy stairs, down some more filthy stairs, and into a tiny, tiny room. It was full. Full of impossible people, a tiny bar, three musicians and a ceiling tiled with "Learn Italian" LP covers.

A petite women, looking like Twiggy wandered behind the bar briefly and fixed herself a drink. Then she came over and squeezed Steve.

"This is Meg. This is her bar," explained Steve.

We got drunk. Really drunk. So drunk that we stopped standing and just sat on stools. Blinking. Contentedly.

I can always remember how I got home. Even on those vile nights where you're counting your steps on the way. But that night, I suddenly woke up on a night bus, watching Yes Minister on my iPod.

Brandy for Breakfast

I've always believed that insomnia can be cured with a bit of TV and a little glass of something soothing.

I woke up at 5 on Saturday morning. Too early to wake up properly, too late to really go back to sleep.

So there I was, watching the West Wing, drinking brandy and eating chocolate cake until the sun came up.

Alarmingly, it was all rather nice. But I'm now waking up fancying a vodka.

Jab! Jab! Jab!

Got my shots for my India holiday.

Wonderful verbal sparring with the nurse. It took a while for me to understand what she meant when she kept asking me "how adventurous" my holiday was going to be.

"Ah," I said, "Yes I am gay, but no I'm not having sex while I'm there."

The nurse smiled and stuck a needle in my arm.

"Who knows," she said, "This male friend you are travelling with? Well, maybe there'll be a good evening, a sunset, a few drinks, and one thing will lead to another..."

Poor dear straight friend Rick. If only he knew.

Miss Marple Afternoon

"Find me the Joan Hickson Miss Marple theme," went the email. And so, to the Internet I went.

Immediately I found the marvellous Margaret Rutherford theme arranged for:

• Accordion
  
• Guitar
  
• School brass band (all in Germany oddly)

But for poor Joan Hickson, whose theme my friend Claire and I would merrily ballet around parties to (even when it wasn't playing)... no sign.

Apart from an Hilarious Midi version

Oddly, reviewed

Not only do I forget I once adapted a play, I even forget that it's still in circulation.

And then the LA production gets reviewed in Variety, and I feel extraordinarily pleased. Smug, in fact.