As spaketh by the exceptionally talented, exceedingly witty Paul Merton son of Mrs Merton:

"Patio Doors: an Irish country and western singer"..........

It's the way he tells 'em.

Last night I saw my living legend, the very raddled, Robert. Him of Plant fame not related to the Chelsea Flower Show but closely associated with Led Zeppelin.

Slim legs encased in a pair of raw silk cex the colour of cabernet sauvignon and a face with more pouches than a suicide bomber's rucksack, this man delivered. He was touring with Alison Krauss to promote the blue-grass, country sound from their debut album Raising Sand. This style of music is not really my cuppa camomile. Alison appeared slightly overwhelmed on stage but her voice and fiddle playing was pure, clear, and emotionally charged. In truth she was a delight and watching the connection between Robert and Alison on stage was thrilling. I felt privileged to hear the reworking of: Black Dog; Black Country Woman, When the levee breaks and the Battle of Evermore. All powerful iconic Led Zeppelin songs rearranged as a showcase for Alison's beautiful interpretation. Naturally they did material from their album which sounded much better live.

In truth it was a fabulous gig. I never expected to enjoy it that much. Their rendition of the Battle of Evermore was anthemic and nearly reduced me to tears. Nearly! Well after three bottles of cabernet (minis) it's duty.

Robert has a quick draw too. During the performance, a loud male voice from crowd shouted "Robert, I love you!" His retort was: "What took you so long?"

(Sigh) Yes, I love him too!.

................will be the news if Chelsea win the final on Wednesday 21st of May. I'm in a quandry since my beloved Liverpool were just pipped by the moving goal-posts. Therefore I will be forced to support Man United. This is a hard cross for me to bear but we all have to make sacrifices in these credit cack-handed times. Sir Alex is an inspiration to me as he seems capable of chewing gum and pointing (simultaneously) at Siralan and mouthing you're fired! (With an abundance of "sir" titles today I wonder if it's worth buying one from e-bay. Perhaps the Sundry Rich List Times may have an advice column on it).

Oh yes back to the football. My strongheld beliefs are purely altruistic. It is quite possible that Chelsea could clutter the streets in a vulgar double-decker, spraying shampoo all over the West End like a tom cat marking its territory. And as this is likely to occur on Thursday they will simply clog the transport arteries within the aleady chaotic North Circular. Furthermore (psyching myself into letter complaintus modus already) as somebody attending the Wembley Arena to see "Le Plant", Robert, not Linda, I may be compelled to write a stiffy to Bo-Jo.

Of course Chelsea have to win first but they might just cheat!

Schadenfreude: 'malicious enjoyment from the suffering of another', is the reason the Apprentice is such addictive television.

Of course it is. And the chance to see a wallet of whipper-snappers get their come-uppance is life-affirming, in a way that anyone under 25 can't possibly comprehend. Besides try and join an apprenticeship scheme and you will discover the cut-off age is 24!!

And so on to Siralan! With a face like Sid James' botoxed, bastard, younger brother and a pointing finger more potent than a rocket launcher, Siralan got to task. And the thing I love about this programme (never seen it before last night's episode) is the utter self-belief and cocked-up conviction of the contestants. The stab-each-other-in-the-sternum attitude, steadfast and true. And when all else fails, whine and beg. Is business run like this? Probably..............but with less apparent transparency.

I can't recall their names. They were, and are all inter-changeable, cannon fodder as a vehicle to highlight Siralan's wiley coyote ways. And why not?

Best of all though is the firing moment. Now this may have gone unremarked upon but when the rabbit in the headlights is squashed, a blustering exit, and badly-done-to gait appears to be what's called for.....called in the game "storming out".....and in this moment one tries to retain a remnant of dignity.

Why then does this always happen?

I shouldn't really be saying this via the medium of blog...........actually yes I should and will. That's what it's here for.

My bombshell is: I really can't understand the fuss that is Madonna.

She was on BBC TV last night being gussied-up by Jo Whiley. I think I've gotten a little long in the tooth (I still have a couple left) but I cringe when I watch these sort of interviews on television. This slavish toadying was interspersed with clips from her show. At one stage she came on with an accoustic guitar and proceeded to parody somebody strumming. If she was actually playing, I make no apologies for this misconception. She looked ridiculous. And would have appeared more credible as some obscure Eurovision Song Contestant - minus the nil point. But it gets a little better/worse depending on whether you feel the pain.

Another entrance with a slick, black, shiny electric guitar and a very "You-Tube" rendition of The Stones "satisfaction". My apologies to "You-Tube" as I have seen some mighty fine musicians on there. And therein lies the rub. She never was a musician, but neither has she been a particularly average pop star. Her latest musical effort is hardly ground-breaking considering the years she has been in the business and the expertise she has at her disposal. She is pandying to a youth culture that probably laughs at her behind her back but enjoys the attention she indirectly brings their way. So it's a mutally symbiotic relationship that sadly does nothing for real musical talent.

Furthermore I never, EVER thought Tina Turner looked ridiculous belting out rock numbers, shaking a tail feather, in a mini skirt at 60.

Maybe that's the difference between real talent and self-promotion.

I wozza virtual blog-virgin until last Saturday night at the Gipsy Moth. On a hot and sultry evening me and my partner-in-penance the delightful Rubychoos-today encountered Menomama's blog-meet massive crew. And what a really lovely bunch of people. It was a great shame that I never got to talk with Jenray, Louisa, Mrs F and Chyna. I was going to add Faffa to that list but vaguely remember talking with her about Del-boy's chandelier!!!! Well that's what happens when you are drunk.

Jakobite; No-but-yes-but-Bob; Ship's cat (cook, just teasing); and that bloke from Status-quo (Francis Rossi) wearing Claire's accessories in his ear lobe were all a real treat too. Row and the lads (Time-wastin'-warlord and Mr Primark) were great fun. And Row it was a great pleasure to meet you finally

I don't know about you lot but we were pissed and missed the last train to Nashville. Leaving us wandering around the middle of Canary Wharf like two rejects from Blade Runner. Somebody ended up taking their choos off and scurrying along in bare feet. Wedges love, that's all I have to say on the matter - Wedges!!!!!

It's a disgrace that a couple of real ladies can't flag down a coach-and-four at that hour. No amount of hanky-swooning was successful. Forced to wail down a black cab and bereft of a considerable wadge later, we banged and clattered our way through the hallowed hall of home, harrumphing with indignation.

Moral of the story. When out and about and having a good time, wear a bastard watch. It might just give you a vague idea of the time.

Especially as I had written down the last trains to Nashville on a piece of paper and put them in my jeans' pocket. Well have you tried to read, let alone understand a train time-table when you are pissed?

So far this year, warm sunny weather has been sadly lacking. I'm well aware that we live in Blighty or should that be Blight(ed)? Tossed around by the rain and the wind, like a fag-end unpredictably defying the maelstrom of a fierce and turbulent lavatory flushing. Yes, that's our great British weather............

But soft.........what light through yonder window breaks? Tis the sun, fair and true, bestowing a goodly warming munificence across our green and septic Isle.

ON A BANK HOLIDAY MONDAY??????????????????

Tis Gordon repealing the taxation of bins, fuel and grain......he feels our pain.
At the petrol pumps or
The supermarket trolley lane....

Suffice to say Gordon if you could tax the sunshine, you would have.....and I think that's the simple reason the sun has been hiding until now.

But as the reptilian Igor attempts the empathy of the nation, the sun does a lot more to ease the misery.

......to the toon of Norwegian Wood.....apologies to the Beatles

Ken once had a job
Or should I say,
he once was mayor

He DID NOT PLAY fair
It's not so good
In Cricklewood!

Not a lot of people know this but you can actually now buy war-torn, abysinnian goats' testicles embraced with parma ham, and sprinkled with crushed lady-birds' carapaces.

Pop in a micro-wave for 3 hours! After piercing with a fork.

So farewell then Mr Gordon Frown and Mr Ken Avarice. Chew on that! And contemplate at your leisure.........even though Mr Frown has possibly another 2 years in office. The man has lost any credibility he may have presumed he once had. His policies and taxation have systematically raped the people of this country. A country war-torn by taxation and smothered by a swaddled, nanny-coddling, complacency.