After the news on tv last night came Graham Norton. If you don’t know Graham, its Johnny Carson meets Judy Garland meets Riverdance. Very funny, very gay, very Irish. And generally, I’m not the biggest fan. But he does pull in some majorly A-list guests to abuse and… and… well, what does he do to them? He talks to them sufficiently about their latest book/film/album to meet contractual obligations, chats about other interesting things that his researchers have dug up and then the rest of the time he just takes the piss. In his ‘harmless, you-wouldn’t-hit-a-gay-Irishman’ kind of way that would be endearing except I find myself in the position that I would hit him. Hard.

But anger management issues aside, I kept La Norton on because he had John Cleese as a guest and if he’d never done anything since the Dead Parrot sketch he’d be a God. But he did more. So much more. And is wonderfully funny. Who’d’a thought that? Also on was Kevin Peterson. The greatest cricketer since WG Grace. Since Garry Sobers. The best batsman since… no, the best ever. He said so in his book. Along with some interesting views on the rest of the English cricket team. And he is nothing if not passionate about England cricket. Patriotic as the Queen. Not Graham Norton, the real one. Except KP is as South African as PW Boetha. As Apartheit. As Oscar Pistorius. As biltong (texture of shoe-leather, taste of wet socks, delicious).

Yet as with most sportspeople, they simply aren’t very interesting, other than their sporting tales of hilarity. Which in a game as inherently funny (?) as cricket, truly leave the crowd in convulsions. Even though it looked like they were asleep. The revelations in KP’s new book about the bad side of the gentleman’s game are controversial. But no-one really cares. Even though as a batsman, on his day, he was incredibly brilliant. Though his days weren’t as many as the not-his-days.

The other guest was Taylor Swift. And I’m such a big fan I would definitely be a stalker at one of her houses, if I knew where any of them were. And I love her music. Its aimed at me. Teenage tales of unrequited love in the school yard. My boyfriend chucked me so I’m gonna burn his underwear drawer. Songs that all middle-aged married men can relate to. But I don’t care, I love the music. Though I’d never seen her speaking before. And it was awful. Because she is bright, clever, funny and highly intelligent. Who’d think such a thing? British songstresses are thick as shit. Cheryl Cole. Jesse J. KP’s wife (don’t worry, no-one can ever remember her name) who ‘sang’ with Liberty X, that wonderful, 10-minute wonder mime artists who won some early karaoke, Simon Cowell type show. But not like ‘my’ Taylor. Writing her own songs before she could walk. 20 zillion dollar contract for her 9th birthday. And truly wonderful. Talented. And although I still find room for Hendrix, Talking Heads, The Clash and so many other gritty, manly, stuff-of-my-generation music, I would find room for Ms Swift on my autochanger any day. As Shania Twain proved conclusively: if the singer is sufficiently gorgeous, country music can be almost acceptable.

Happy Saturday-almost-Sunday

A xxxx