Sir David Frost is and has been many things, but he is not Art, Music or Drama, which are loosely assumed to be the key criteria for inclusion in Ludlow’s annual festival, and there seemed no obvious reason for his appearing here. But this festival has become something of a cultural potpourri, and it’s hard to find a coherent theme in the choices made by the organisers. I’ve said this before, but of course, in some ways this doesn’t matter at all. They booked Frost for “An Audience with Sir David Frost (Followed by a Q&A session)” at Ludlow’s Assembly Rooms and I went along quite uncertain of what to expect.

To start with it turned out to be a truly enjoyable nostalgia trawl through ‘60s television satire, of which David Frost was the principle pioneer. Showing some evocative clips from That Was The Week That Was, and the Frost Report, he was obviously relishing his role in bringing so much great and subsequently famous talent to the screen for the first time – like Roy Kinnear, Willie Rushton, John Cleese, Ronnies Corbett and Barker.

Popularity: 3% [?]

Walcot Hall sits in the valley of the River Kemp which flows serenely towards the Clun between the round-topped, wooded hills of southwest Shropshire. In 1764, Clive of India chose to settle in this beautiful corner of England, just east of Offa’s Dyke, and bought the house with its 80,000 acre estate. He commissioned an architect, Sir William Chambers to re-order the house, which he then left to his son Edward. Walcot Hall remained in the Clive family for 170 years, during which time vast sums were also spent on improving the grounds. A mile-long lake, enlarged by Napoleonic French prisoners of war, still spans the view from the Hall.  In 1800, a spacious ballroom was added in order to house a carpet presented to Edward while he’d been governor of Madras.

Popularity: 4% [?]

I’m sure I’ve mentioned on this blog my commitment to the pursuit of truth – fleeting and everlasting – through personal engagement. You won’t read here any commentaries delivered from the comfort and safety of my own armchair, like those of other observers who are content to sit and grumble about the horror and degradation of reality TV shows without ever experiencing them at first hand. Now that these seem to occupy half the schedules on most channels, and with all the fuss about Susan Boyle, I thought I should, on behalf of those who follow this blog, and to satisfy my own indestructible curiosity, expose myself to the potential humiliation of an audition for one of these shows. And so, being the possessor of what has kindly been described as a pleasing baritone voice, last Saturday I took myself off to auditions for the X-Factor at the Millennium Stadium in Cardiff.

Popularity: 1% [?]

The debate over the creation of a third runway at Heathrow is so multifaceted that it’s hard not only for concerned members of the public to come to a valid conclusion, but also the professionals involved who appear to be just as confused. Unlikely alliances have emerged. That a Labour government should back the runway, while the Tories (along with Lib-Dems and Emma Thompson) oppose it, looks bizarre in an historical context, because there is only one, traditionally conservative argument in favour, and it is largely commercial:

Popularity: 1% [?]

Yesterday’s Vietnam edition of Top Gear on BBC2 was one of the least entertaining, least informative travel programs I’ve ever seen. The idea that the chaps might have to ride into North Vietnam on a bike painted with stars-and-stripes to remind the people there of having the shit bombed out of them 40 years ago was so pathetically feeble and plain ill-mannered, I don’t imagine it raised a titter anywhere in the land. But poor old Clarkson (who, I know, is a nice guy from his choices on Desert Island Discs) has created a persona for himself of such dimensions his studied un-PC-ness has got way out of hand. Now Top Gear’s producer is grumbling that the BBC will have to cut his budget. May I suggest that the easiest way to cut costs at Top Gear would be to axe the two puerile tossers with whom Clarkson is forced to work. May is a bumbling oaf and Hammond is the most witless little git on telly. Are there really people out there that love them? Je ne croix pas.

Popularity: 1% [?]