Speeding punnets

It's easy to knock daytime talk shows. Not magazines shows, with the likes of the lovely Phil and Fern, or the breezy 'debates' a la Loose Women; no, I mean the Trisha-type programmes, those modelled on such US imports as Jerry Springer and Ricki (Lake). The ones in which ordinary British folk act as though they've been raised in a trailer park in Tennessee, and not a nice one, but the type we genteel Europeans look down upon from our olde worlde cottages. The type that likely don't exist outside of Britney Spears biographies, the ones where the womenfolk marry their brothers while momma smokes a pipe.

I hope most of the misanthropic males and hectoring harpies on the British iterations are just acting up, copying the shenanigans of our American friends in order to get their 15 minutes of particularly lowbrow fame. But the rows and tears are starting to look real and I'm beginning to suspect that the learned behaviour is becoming internalised, and a mutation is taking place. Soon there'll be reports of babies born with cute little caravans on their backs, clutching DNA paternity tests and throwing cots at each other.

All of which is a preamble, really, to my snorting laughter at noticing that The Jeremy Kyle Show (that's him looking ever so concerned, caring yet tough) is no longer sponsored by the terribly respectable Learn Direct agency. Nope, the scoundrels and harridans who take over the TV every morning are now with us courtesy of . . . a vegetable supplier.

Just been to see Rik Mayall and chums in The New Statesman at Edinburgh Playhouse. I hadn't the greatest expectations for a great night; I'd enjoyed a few episodes of the old TV series, but having seen him in Bottom in Edinburgh, didn't think Mayall could contain his energies sufficiently to serve a 'proper' play.

Colour me convinced - Mayall found a nice balance between the mania so beloved of fans, and the acting I want to see in a proper play. Unsurprisingly, he showed himself well up to a spot of witty impro when things went wrong, and the rest of the cast also stepped up to the mark.

Laurence Marks and Maurice Gran's show has their inspired creation again at the centre of government, but the Tory has crossed the floor to become a Blairite minister/manipulator. In the course of two hours there are fine shenanigans involving the PM, Condaleeza Rice, Al-Quaida and pretty much every public figure you care to name. What's more. it's bang up to date, with a smattering of nice John Prescott gags.

It's not the most subtle of satires, but given the paucity of such material on TV these days (Rory Bremner and the Two Johns may be good, but their smugness is beyond painful), it's good to see theatre having a poke at our fatcat government.

OK, it's a horribly unlikely possibility that you'll be murdered, but it could happen and it's up to you to take a precaution. So have plenty of photos of yourself taken, in your nicest outfits, and leave them where the police can find them. That way, they can give a decent selection to the media and you won't forever more be gurning out of the newspapers in a taupe polyester shirt.

The UK TV ad for the Da Vinci Code says 'contains flagellation and other mild violence'. Can anyone tell me where the categorisation list is?

And why do so many middle class, middle-aged men have a pair of red jumbo cords they wear at weekends? Is there some secret society of staid office workers who agree that this is how their secret jollity will be expressed? They're so very attractive.

A random moan: most Mondays the Guardian Media section carries job ads for the BBC. For a while now they've had a standard opening format. I quote:

The BBC World Service broadcasts in 33 languages.
What did you expect?

Last year we had to prepare 228 acceptance speeches.
What did you expect?

I dunno, BBC HR folk - perhaps I expected not to read such condescending old tosh from people whose wages I'm paying.

The BBC is bloody smug.
What did you expect?

Oh, busy, busy, busy! At the weekend I went to a pal's Eurovision preview night; saw an exhibition at Edinburgh's City Art Gallery on the area's gay heritage; and saw new movie Confetti.

The Euro-do was great fun, with 37 entries on display prior to the whittling down to, I think, 24 that comes prior to the final later this month. There weren't that many songs that were immediately memorable - Silvia Night's Congratulations is Iceland's weirdo entry, will she be able to use the F-word on the night, should she get through? That's her with the tongue; LT United's We Are The Winners won't prove a prophetic title for Lithuania; Ireland's Brian Kennedy sings Every Song is a Cry For Love, but I think he means Pain; Lordi's Finnish entry, Hard Rock Hallelujah is a hoot; Cosmos provide a unique bit of acapella for Latvia, I Hear Your Heart - but overall, there were too many dull girlie singers.

I have high hopes for the UK's Daz Sampson with the daft Teenage Life, but I'd like to see Switzerland's Six4One win with their nicely New Seekerish If We All Give A Little. I wouldn't be at all surprised if Slovenia's terifyingly coiffed Anzej Dezan won with the neat Mr Nobody, but Europe being what it is the gong will likely go to the percussive ladies from the Netherlands, Treble, with Arambanda.

If you like Eurovision at all I heartily recommend John Kennedy O'Connor's cleverly titled The Eurovision Song Contest from Carlton Books, a superbly illustrated, nicely written ride through 50 years of songs for Europe.

The gay exhibit is rather fun, with photos of locals past and present, recorded recollections of cruising in the bad old days and more. Plus, there's a terrifically sexy security guard fella who hands out leaflets on gay walks as you arrive. Seriously. And they all finish at my house.

As for Confetti, it's not a bad Britcom, but really would have been improved by having an actual script rather than improvised dialogue arising from workshops. There was one laugh-outloud moment - there could have been many more, with a sharp scenario writer at work.

Well, it's been a thrilling day - wasted the morning waiting for a plumber, who never came - fnar fnar - and spent the afternoon trying not to drop off at work. Rushed back for the reassigned plumber appointment, and it looks like the toilet may make it.

Yes, the day really has been this dull - I suspected that after getting a record played on Elaine Paige's Radio 2 showtunes programme on Sunday, the rest of life would be a letdown. It was John Raitt singing 'Hey there' from The Pajama Game, one of my favourite films

Right, Elaine, thinking of me.

What is it with late night American chat shows? Roars and applause for saying 'Wasn't it a lovely day in New York?' Twenty minutes of rubbish topical gags. About ten minutes of one decent guest plugging a show or movie. Fifteen of a lousy guest unknown outside of the US (on the Late Night With Letterman show being shown in the UK tonight it's media trainwreck Tom Cruise and Cheeky Cockerney Cook Jamie Oliver - actually, make that two lousy guests).

And worst of all, sidekicks. Paul Shaffer on Letterman has to be the worst, an unctious little bandleader who strokes the host's ego. He's like the little kid at school who wanted to be your best pal and follows you everywhere, just repeating what you say. How can such a throwback exist after all those years of Hank Kingsley on Larry Sanders? I wouldn't care, but he's obviously a talented musician, and probably a lot wittier off-screen. But on air he's just soooo irritating. What's the point of him?

It's funny, when I was a kid, and Letterman appeared in one of my favourite comic books - Marvel's The Avengers, above - I assumed this was some kind of great show. Looking back, that issue of Avengers was terrible too.

I enjoyed last night's entertainment far more - Antonio Banderas in Take the Lead. That's the one in which an inspirational teacher takes a bunch of angry inner city kids and helps them find a passion for dance. Yup, it's terribly cliched, there's not an original scene in there, but it's so very well done - a likeable cast, great dance sequences, a script that hits all the right notes, good directing and editing. I loved it to bit. And so I shall think of its familiarity in terms of ritual, not cliche. When's the DVD out?

It's a gorgeous day in Edinburgh's old town. Work's been good, I'm looking forward to The Apprentice on telly tonight, and I'm suddenly boyfriend-free. Making the best of a sad job, I'm looking forward to a summer of singledom, studded by studs - one thing this place doesn't lack is a lot of through trade, so I'm hoping to make a few purchases.

Or better still, enjoy some freebies. I just hope they aren't too close to the sell-by date.

I'm still on very good terms with my last fella, but basically, he was into bottoms and I couldn't be arsed. The differences proved insurmount(ahem)able. Hey ho, now we both have someone to go out cruising with.

He still won't let me dress his cats up in pretty outfits, though.