Channel 4

Did you see that Derren Brown geezer do that Russian Roulette thing on Channel 4 the other night? Flipping brilliant it was. The only slight disappointment was that the smug git didn’t blow his brains out but you can’t have everything.

You’ve got to hand it to Channel 4 though. They may be purveyors of porn and servers of smut but they’ve got their faults as well. How’s this for a bit of TV scheduling? Death of a Scientist (about Dr David Kelly killing himself) followed by Derren Brown Plays Russian Roulette Live. Brilliant. I’m sure Mrs Kelly would have been tickled at their sense of irony.

You know what’s coming next though. In the fine tradition of Channel 4 programming we can soon expect Celebrity Russian Roulette. If it worked for Big Brother, Fame Academy and Survivor then why not personalities shooting themselves?

It will be a riot. Six celebrities, one gun, five bullets. Last man standing gets the Christmas Number One and a new chat show. The other five get their old programmes repeated and a celebrity funeral.

And let’s face it there’s no shortage of giant egos who are just dying to get their faces on the telly — even if their faces will be covered in blood.

What about Barrymore? The old singing shirtlifter can’t get a gig anywhere else on television so I can’t see him turning down the chance of a comeback. He keeps telling us he’s had a bum rap (oh no, that was the bloke in his swimming pool wasn’t it) so let’s get him on I’m a Celebrity, Get Me the Empty Chamber and see if he can dodge another bullet.

And how about that poncey designer bloke, that Laurence Llewellyn Bummer. Oh how good would it be to see that lanky streak of pink put a gun to his girlie hair and pull the trigger? Better than a clearance sale at B&Q. Even if he did spray the walls with his blood and brains it would be better than the colours he normally chooses.

They normally have a sportsman on these celebrity things but if we can’t manage that then get Tim Henman on. This time we could happily shout “Come on, Tim” and really mean it. Of course you know what would happen, the sap would get through to the last four then cack himself like he normally does.

We need a woman as well, if only to make the tea and keep things tidy. I’d suggest Mrs Plumb but she’s not a celebrity and anyway you’d never hear the gun go off over the sound of her nagging. I reckon that fat cow Clarissa Dickson Wright would fit the bill. Did you read that she is going to be in Absolutely Fabulous and said she’d be a sexy blonde in a white basque. Nearly lost me flipping lunch. Give her a gun.

My next choice would be that Welsh newsreader bloke with the stupid ties. You know, that Huw Edwards. Can’t understand a bleeding word he says. Yakki da, bang, now here’s the weather. Anyway, he always said he wanted to be the next Jill Dando.

But they should really pull out all the stops and get Tony Blair to complete the line-up. They should put no bullets in the gun and have him swear blind that there are loads of them. But funny as that would be it would be much funnier if they put a bullet in every chamber and see if the slimy git can worm his way out of that one. I swear if they put that on the telly I might even pay my licence fee.

You see, it’s all about giving people what they want. Any apprentice still wet behind his arse will tell you that if the bloke in number eight wants a new angle stop then you give him a new angle stop even if it’s his diverter which has gone pear-shaped. And if it’s true in plumbing then it’s true in life.

Come on Channel 4, pull the plug on Countdown and give Richard Whitely the bullet. The public will love you for it.

Plumb on.

Tim Henman

Oh darlings, isn’t it so terribly sad? Poor little Timmy Henman has been foiled yet again in his quest to win Wimbers. Trust the flaming French to spoil things.

I was so sure that Timmy was going to do it this time that I had even cancelled my annual Roger Taylor memorial party that I had planned for Sunday evening. Once a year a group of us girlies get together and swap stories about our time with Britain’s last great tennister. Of course I couldn’t possibly tell you what we got up to with him but let’s just say he wasn’t called Roger for nothing.

Every year we have lashings of Pimms, remember those glorious strokes and dream of rain delays. Dear old Roger had a marvellous racquet with a particularly impressive shaft. He could lob his balls from the back of the court and return time after time. Love fifteen? I should cocoa.

Timmy on the other hand is far too much of a mummy’s boy to possibly be a grand slam. He always looks like he’s been caught dreaming about Anna Kournikova and is desperately trying to bring up the covers.

It’s still a dreadful shame though. If Timmy had won it would have been like the Last Night of the Proms, the Queen’s Jubilee and the sinking of the Belgrano all rolled into one. Imagine how pickled and patriotic we’d all have been once the shampoo began flowing. Darlings I’d have been so bluttered I’d have happily bonked old rubbery faced Sue Barker in the middle of centre court.

Talking of La Barker, there has been much scurrilous skinny about how she could have represented Lesbania in the Federation Cup thingy but I happen to know that at the very least she had dual nationality. Penny Piper-Evans’ brother Lance said that when he was 16 La Barker had him over the net. Hungrier than a marmoset in a trap by all accounts. Mieow.

Her animalistic urges is one reason why I could never understand the tattle about her and old Cliff Richard being an item. If those two were playing mixed doubles then I’ll wear last season’s shoes with a Gucci strapless. I’m sure sweet Cliffie has nothing against La Barker except that she is the wrong sex, about 34 years too old and won’t fit into a ball boy’s uniform. Oh, did I say that out loud?

Funny but even though there was lots of rain at Wimbers this year, they didn’t wheel out Sir Cliffie to sing to the troops. Charlie Throckmorton tells me it’s because he much prefers Queen’s these days. And Charlie should know — such a disappointment to a girl. I once canoodled up to him after getting Brahms on the Bolli, only to find he was limper than a Sainsbury lettuce. New balls please.

Toodlepip