For some reason I decided to visit Peter’s website today and discovered that he’d had a BBC sketch show a few years ago (which wasn’t recommissioned for a second series) called The Peter Serafinowicz Show. And some clips from it are on YouTube and linked to on his site.

It’s pretty good – needs a little more comedic pace for a sketch show – but there are occasional flashes of brilliance. Such as the clip below, where he produces a version of Who wants to be a millionaire? set in World War II. I enjoyed so I figured I’d do a quick post so you could too.

“I live on the edge of the county of Berkshire in England.

“There is a huge council house in our street. The extended family is run by a grumpy old woman with a pack of fierce dogs. Her car isn’t taxed or insured and doesn’t even have a number plate, but the police still do nothing.

“Her bad-tempered old husband is of foreign descent but is still notorious for making racist comments. A shopkeeper blames him for ordering the murder of his son and his son’s girlfriend, but nothing has yet been proved.

“All their kids have broken marriages except the youngest, who everyone thought was gay, and two of their grandsons are meant to be in the Army but spend most of their time partying in nightclubs. They are totally out of control.

“God, how I hate living near Windsor Castle. “

One shows the mindless self-absorption the media has with itself in such an extraordinary way that it could easily be mistaken for genius satire.

[youtube]KBRUalssp0Q[/youtube]

And the other is John Stewart doing what John Stewart does best – despairing but in a very entertaining way.

The title I sent them was: “Why TV news in the US is utter rubbish (blows big time)”. I still like that, although it is, admittedly, too long. Anyway, I was asked to reprise my original post and so I did by pulling the first person out of it (I *hate* comment pieces with constant “I”, “me” and “my” inclusions – in fact as an editor I would fire anyone that used the word “I” in the first three paragraphs); by adding some examples of the different traits I’d noticed; and by adding a bit on other news options at the end.

It’s not a bad piece. And even though it was swiftly off the front page of the Guardian site, it was the number six most-read piece all through Thursday, dropping down to #7 on Friday, and finally falling off the top ten on Saturday. Not bad considering the competition: John Pilger, Russia and Georgia, and John Edwards being caught with his pants down.

I also got 133 comments on it last time I looked. Hardly any were actually that useful, but then the site option becomes a place for other commenters to argue with one another rather than an extension of an article – such is the Internet way. Alot of other bloggers appeared to agree with my analysis – but then who exactly is going to stand up for the US news stations? They’re so dreadful even the Yanks can’t get patriotic about them.

Anyway, you can read the whole piece in glorious Technicolor here, or put up with my site below:

Why TV news in the US is utter rubbish

It’s not just that world events are ignored in favour of celebrity gossip. News anchors skew the facts to provoke debate

For years it has been a joke that news in the United States is terrible: obsessed with trivia and celebrity; fronted by Botox bimbos; forever interviewing citizens about some artefact of small-town life when a major news story is breaking elsewhere.

Well, the truth is that it’s far, far worse than that. There are a multitude of news channels – CNN, MSNBC, CBS, NBC, PBS, Fox. But after an hour of flipping between them during lunchtime last week, this was the sum total of information gleaned: there are two US presidential candidates; they have produced campaign ads; people have made video parodies and posted them on the internet; a US TV news host appeared on a US TV chatshow last night; and someone said something controversial (read ignorant) on a different TV show the day before.

In the meantime, one of the most sought-after war criminals in the world had been arrested and sent for trial; several new scientific breakthroughs had been announced; Zimbabwe edged carefully toward shared government; the Indian government dealt with votes of no-confidence and terrorist attacks; and countless other real stories came and went. For millions of Americans, these events appeared as 15-word tickertapes at the bottom of their 36-inch widescreen TVs.

It’s not the absolute dearth of real news that is the problem, however. It’s the fact that the news that is presented isn’t news but mindless, misleading gossip. The clearest example of this is when one of the (between two and six) commentators on any given story provides their “analysis”.

This comprises of showing a video clip and then talking with the assumed voice of the person in the clip. So, for example, Barack Obama gave a press conference. A clip of around four or five seconds of what he said is shown and then the TV studio people take over.

News anchor: “So what he’s saying is ‘Hey, I’m the guy in charge here – I’m the person who decides what to do, not you.’ Is that right?”

Commentator: “I think what he was saying was: ‘If I become president, then I’ll be the person that calls the shots.’”

Commentator Two: “I don’t agree. He’s saying: ‘I am going to listen to others – that’s what I’ll do – but make no mistake I’ll be the person who makes the final decision.’”

This goes on and on with people making up dialogue and pretending to be Obama (or John McCain or anyone else that comes to mind) rather than broadcasting what was actually said.

But it gets worse:

• Unfair comment: The analysis of what someone has said is clearly bent by the reporters themselves along ideological lines. Unrelated facts and events are attached and then attacked, and the original news point ends up as little more than a launching pad for the experts’ own political perspectives. So a sober report on, say, house prices ends up as a criticism of the Republican party’s fiscal policy (without any details of that policy being provided). In the worst cases, something with no news value at all is introduced in order to score political points – such as McCain eating at a German restaurant, or Obama knocking fists with his wife.
• Tail-chasing and navel gazing: The media reports constantly on itself. And that really does mean constantly. Anything reported on the TV news instantly becomes something to be reported on. For an entire day the lead on most TV networks was whether the media was giving Obama too much coverage. The second day comprised of whether the coverage given to Obama was too uncritical. By the third day, much of the coverage was about the previous two days’ coverage, complete with clips of how rival networks were covering the “news”. News hosts also regularly appear on other news hosts’ shows, and then feature that appearance on their own show.
• Never let the story get in the way: The focus is entirely on the back story, and the actual news is given lip-service. So you’ll hear more about how a decision was arrived at than what the actual decision was, or what impact it might have. The idea is that you are getting the real juice. The reality is you are forced to drink a pint of conjecture concentrate. Presidential campaign ads have become lead stories. A one-second image flash of Britney Spears and Paris Hilton in a recent ad implied that Obama was no more than a celebrity. It led to hours of primetime news speculation, while the ad’s central claim that Obama would raise taxes if elected was ignored.
• The Jerry Springer school of journalism: There is never a neutral statement – it is always an extreme perspective. If you are the news anchor, you can speak in a third-party voice and add a question mark on the end to suggest impartiality. But otherwise, wild claims are balanced with an equally wild claim at the other end. If someone attempts to point out logical inconsistencies, they are almost always faced with personal mockery by the other commentators. Just one example of this bizarre, school-bully behaviour: When one commentator, speaking from Las Vegas, tried to point out why an offshore drilling bill (which had been misrepresented as a reason why the Democrats were responsible for high petrol prices), had not been passed by Congress, he was told by the anchor that he had clearly spent too much time at the craps tables. He was told soon after by another commentator he had spent too much time at the bar. The substance of his argument did not of course merit discussion.
• The gold(fish) rush: There is absolutely no effort to provide historical context. The news is paced so frenetically that anything beyond soundbites is not tolerated. News anchors consistently talk over the top of anyone that doesn’t provide a punchy point every 10 seconds. Swooshing graphics and dance music add to the general level of pace – which effectively masks the fact that almost nothing is being provided beyond personal opinion.
• When did you stop beating your wife? Coverage is deeply cynical in the sense that people are assumed to have a hidden and planned agenda even when the connection drawn would have been impossible to predict as it doesn’t follow logical reasoning. Speculation with no foundation in logic or fact is opened up as a serious news item with the simple inclusion of the phrase “Did [insert name of person] know about [insert event]?” The answer – if there was ever any attempt to actually arrive at it – will always be “No”.
• Fight! Fight! Fight! There is no effort to reach a greater understanding. Instead, the sole intent is to provoke disagreement and partisan perspective – with the anchor used solely to egg on disagreement. Nearly every segment ends with the anchor shutting off argument and promoting the idea that they will have to agree to disagree.

So where do you get your news while living in the US? News-starved Americans usually hold up National Public Radio, NPR, as the best option. But with interlude music fresh from the 1920s and a twee, kitchen-table-chat approach, this is news wrapped in a tea cosy.

Two comedy programmes, the Daily Show and the Colbert Report, fill a peculiar niche of serious analysis with gags and are possibly the main news source for people under 30. They both viciously lampoon the news media, which pretends not to notice and runs clips from them on their own shows.
There is hope however. The non-news cycle is increasingly being broken by the internet. Thanks to cheap digital technology and fast net connections, online video is a simple prospect and means it is possible to get your fix of moving images with real news thrown in.

Not that TV news is concerned. The internet, and YouTube in particular, is a network’s dream: an Aladdin’s Cave of uninformed, one-sided and aggressive gossip and commentary, all of it searchable and requiring minimal expenditure of time or money. And so every day you can find news anchors running short clips of the very best the internet can offer before turning to the experts to give their views.

But you know their hearts aren’t in it. All the mass-produced, completely supply-reliable, unrottable, choose-your-shade-of-green foodstuffs that the multi-nationals supply them with make supermarkets’ lives much, much easier. And so supermarkets cheer themselves up by ripping off organic customers, charging an even greater mark-up on organic produce, and making their mass-produced products look more and more like the organic versions.

In the UK you can tell organic food because it looks weird. All bumpy, misshapen and vaguely threatening. It’s been pulled out the ground for chrissake. No beauty competitions underground, believe you me. As we speak, the chemical maniacs that produce most of our food are inventing new fertilisers that distort vegetables sufficiently to pass the ugly test but still just creep in under legal toxicity limits.

So I thought organic food would take the same design in the United States. But no. In the US, organic food still has to look as if it is an Oscar nominee and has been in make-up all morning. The crucial differentiator in the US is: organic food comes dripping wet.

Spade-like hands

Not wet like having been pulled out of a bucket, but wet like a huge farmer has filled up one of his huge hulking spade-like hands with water and then scattered on top of his glorious produce.

Everything’s wet. To the extent that you have to shake it when you pick it up – sending water flying over everything else. I have they have good drains underneath the veg racks. And, of course, not to be left out, the non-organic stuff also has *some* water sprinkled over it – but not as much. That’s how you tell.

Call me paranoid but I’m pretty certain that some supermarket big boss up there is enjoying this water-loading as a terrific joke against his customers that insist on continuing to buy organic produce. Two-thirds of a cent extra thanks to the weight of the water, he’ll be chuckling to himself. And they think it’s healthier. Broahahahahaha.

And then, on the other end of it is the pre-made salads in a bag.

These bags already have a notoriously poor reptutation. They are rinsed in all sorts of chemicals to make sure no bugs make it through and then they are sealed in nitrogen bags to keep them fresh. The result is: utterly tasteless nonsense. But I still buy them on occasion because I eat such little salad that if I buy all the ingredients (leaves) separately I know I will end up throwing most of it away.

So I bought a “Spring mix with herbs” bag a few weeks ago to occasionally grab at and shove a few leaves next to the meat and veg on the plate. I then spent a busy week in the office, a week in Rio at a conference, and two days sick with flu, and while cooking yesterday, noticed the bag at the bottom rung of the fridge. Carefully picking it up to avoid the leaf sludge, I was bemused, exciting and then appalled to discover that aside from very slight curling, it was in almost the exact same condition as when I left it.

I don’t know what the hell they’ve done with leaves but the fact that they’ve done it and the end products are still somehow digestible is testament to what mankind is capable of when faced with enough profit incentive.

Tubs

I don’t know where Americans got their love of sauces from but my god. It’s not the Land of the Free, it’s the Land of the Sauce. The more the merrier. And plenty of it. Why restrict yourself to a smattering of sauce that you dip your food into when you can smother it in that shit – and add another two on top. The more sauces, the more taste!

The aisle devoted to sauces is in turn impressive and depressing. I have a big problem with pre-created sauces. They always but always lose what makes a sauce – the delicate blend and punch of different flavours. You simply cannot stick a ton of ingredients into a monster vat, stir it up, shove the results in thousands of tiny bottles, stack em on shelves and expect them to taste anything like a sauce knocked up for the job alongside the meal.

But it’s far worse than that. What I’m describing is the best sauces. Most of the sauces in supermarkets over here are one-flavour e-number plastic gunk-fests. And to prove it, they come in enormous jars at ridiculously cheap prices. Don’t worry about the taste, feel the weight.

On the other side

But enough bitching and moaning. This is the US of A, which means that everything dreadful is balanced with something extraordinary.

In this case, it is choice. And high-quality choice when it comes to things Americans like. It may seem like an odd thing to say but the choice of ice creams is like nothing you’ve ever seen. Yes, ice cream isn’t *healthy* but then that doesn’t make it any less tasty, and there is the most tremendous array of ice cream. And most of it is extremely nice, bordering on sensational.

Likewise pizza. I don’t really like pizza (small bits of food on tomato and bread) but every now and again it’s a tasty and easy snack. Pizza bought from a supermarket everywhere else in the world is a pretty poor affair – floppy bread, plastic cheese, watery tomato. In America, the pizzas are often better than what you get in restaurants. Yes, they’re fatty, but they’ve got decent ingredients and they are, well, tasty.

But perhaps most importantly – and maybe it’s just California – the selection of wine is tremendous. It doesn’t cover the world as much as I’d like but there is a huge array with lots and lots of Californian reds. And they’re pretty good. I’ve been sampling at different prices and I’ve yet to hit a dud. A slightly different experience in the UK.

Plus of course many of the shops open for much longer hours – the Ralphs nearest me being open 24 hours. Yes, you can buy soaking wet lettuce at 4am if that floats your boat.

But what’s the biggest secret?

It has to be the hot plate with ready-cooked meatloaf and chicken-roasts. Yes they may be poor quality food and yes they may have been there all day, gently, slowly wasting away from heat exhaustion but buy one, tuck into it and against your better judgement, you’ll find it’s a taste revolution.

Am I serious? No. They look and smell absolutely disgusting. I’d rather cook a dead dog over a candle. But hey, so long as I never have to spend too long in a room with someone who eats this stuff, it remains a glorious bizarre blend of foodstuffs.

So, I’m in the bar at the Fonteverde Spa having had a lovely dinner next door. As usual, there is only one or two other people in here, plus the long-suffering pianist and the barman who, knowing I’m going to having one of the remaining single malts, has already prepared a glass of distilled water and an empty glass for the whisky.

I had a Bowmore 17 last night which was lovely and tonight, a Lagavulin 16, which to me is like a cross between Laphroaig and Bowmore. Why they pour it in a port glass is beyond me, but it leads to very healthy measures so who cares? But that’s enough boring whisky talk, what about the hairnet-sleepmask-underpants?

Arse bandit

It all became clear today when I had my “Ki” massage. On Wednesday I had dismissed what I thought was a sleeping mask, yesterday I had rejected what I initially thought was a hairnet, and then suddenly realised it was probably massage underpants.

So today, I determined to find out even if it led to a mildly embarassing exchange. Forunately my masseuse spoke not-bad English, which made things easier. She pointed out the small, wrapped circle of fabric and said “slipper for you”. Aha! So this was what Nicola the man had been saying, I heard “you sleep?” so thought it was a sleeping mask. Though the fact she said “slipper” concerned me enought to tear open the plastic and make a grunt which caused her to pause as she was slipping out the door. I waved about with the strange lightweight black fabric and said “underpants?” while motioning putting them on. “Yes, yes.”

So there you have it. A pair of pants.

And once I’d loosened them out it became clear that’s what they were. In fact, I think nearly all women would have recognised what they were straight away because they are basically a lightweight g-string, big up front and cut away at the back. But for a man, this shape does not correlate to something you put on as pants. So with that hurdle having finally been overcome on day three, and with my arse waving around uncontained, she got down to the massage (having swiftly covered me up with a towel).

Ki for Kieren

I can’t remember what the bunkem is surrounding Ki massage but it was the most unusual massage I’ve had and yet probably the best. It wasn’t very physical and was an odd combination of soft strokes, joint manoeuvering, and occasional pressing prodding with fingers and knuckles.

I suspect my masseuse was very good at it though because as she finished with each body part it had a strange tingly sensation like really pleasant pins-and-needles. It was odd because she didn’t seem to do much but it was a having a definite effect.

However, I hate to admit it but as with each of the other two massages, they were very pleasant, and my body was clearly relaxing but it wasn’t doing what I needed it to – and that was to stop my mind whirring. For three days I have been actively focussing on mental relaxation, not thinking about work or life or other issues, but I could still feel my brain whirring away sub-consciously. I wasn’t getting that wonderfully spaced feeling you get when you give your brain a quick holiday.

Until that was, she switched oils to a very heady oil and started massaging my face. If you were to assume that I had taken drugs at some point during my life, and you were to assume therefore I knew what it was like to “come up”, this was precisely the feeling that hit me as she started massaging my head.

Literally with seconds, the whirring wound down and before I knew it, I was imagining flying about the Tuscan hills I have been watching intently for several days. “Thank fuck for that,” was my first and only thought for the next five minutes, as I finally hit proper relaxation.

Passing out

In fact, I didn’t want to leave the room but had to so as soon as I left I padded around to where they have a chill-out area – basically very comfortable deckchairs lined up in a sun-lit conservatory with more outside. I decided to lie down and was out like a light. About 30 minutes later, I came round, turned over, lifted up the back and went to grab my book and read but instead passed out again.

And I was in that state for at least another 30 minutes, occasionally opening my eyes as people walked past to settle down. If it wasn’t a spa, I would probably have got thrown out for being an opium-head.

I felt after another 10 minutes that I should probably move so I headed up to the guest-only pool, but it looked too busy and too much hassle so I went round the other side to this very relaxed open-air solarium, sat down in a wicker chair and reached for my book again. Passed out again. This happened another three times. I was so blissfully tired that I could only read a few pages before I succumbed again.

When I eventually headed back to my hotel room, rather than have a shower, I climbed on top of the bed and fell asleep again. I was beginning to think my masseuse had spiked me. So, yes, after two-and-a-half days in a spa, it finally hit. And just in time for me to leave tomorrow. Thank god for that. It feels like it was worth all the expense and hassle.

Americans and food

What is it about Americans – even the cultured and pleasant ones – that they have this insane desire to chop-and-change food menus.

I’m having dinner at the hotel restaurant (I toyed with the idea of actually heading to a nearby town for dinner but decided I couldn’t be bothered), and I hear two voices in English. I can’t speak a word of Italian so it was nice to hear and understand something for a change. And it was an American couple – perfectly nice looking – talking to the maitre d’ and tearing up the carefully prepared menu from the highly trained chef to their own requirements. “Okay, can I have the gnoochi, but I don’t want this sauce with it, could I have to basil sauce from this pasta instead,” said the man. “Yes, and I’d like the fish, but could you have the vegetables from this dish…,” said the woman.

I don’t know what “fucking Americans” is in Italian but I’m sure those were the words that I heard emitted from the kitchen shortly afterwards.

Italians and smoking

Not that the Italians are without their flaws. Although I note with some interest that gay Italians dress much worse than their straight counterparts. It can’t be easy be a gay Italian. Tight T-shirt? Covered. Pouting expression and pecs? Done. Earrings? Immaculate hair? Sorry, they’re for straight men. It seems the only way to differentiate yourself in Italy is to make sure you have a terrible sense of style. But even so – a purple top and then purple-spotted white trousers?!! Jesus, man, you’re gay, not mental.

But the far stranger thing is the women. There are two types at the spa – the slightly older Italian mommas who wear large bathing suits (although sometimes *large* bikinis) and couldn’t really give a shit. They are who they are and they want to lay in the sun and get massaged and god help anyone that gets in their way. God bless em.

But then there are the slightly younger (although still 40s and 50s) women who clearly go to enormous lengths to retain their figure – probably why they’re here and there are entire weight-loss programmes on offer. But there is one appalling area where their age shows – and it’s in their face, and it’s because they smoke incessantly.

There is nothing quite like a woman smoker’s face. The dry, shrivelled, patchy skin – it’s unmistakeable. It never fails to amaze me that they don’t see it. So while they are paying top-dollar to be wrapped up in cellophane with a sea-bed for company, and climbing into ancient spas, they don’t see how bonkers it is to pull a fag out their bag every five minutes and suck those chemicals right into their system. Bizarre.

Beautiful Man / Beautiful Woman

The Beautiful Couple were around alot today. And they really are striking. But watch closely and you notice something very odd about them. They are constantly veering between supremely confident, chests puffed out, and incredibly insular and insecure. The transformation happens in minutes and often when one is one, the other is the other. How dreadful for your self-esteem to be on a constant yo-yo, depending solely on how the next person responds to you.

I wouldn’t say no to be as attractive as either of them for a week or so, but you don’t get to make that choice, do you? Give me gawky-looking but comfortable in your own skin any day.

Rich people

And why I’m having a good old stereotpying session – aren’t rich people unfriendly? I was pondering this today. I mean I’m not the most sociable person in the world but I’m not unfriendly. Quite a few people here are – won’t catch your eye, or say hello, even if sharing a lift.

Not being a rich person, this is my theory: alot of the drive to becoming a rich person comes from wishing to differentiate yourself as somehow more important, with greater status than everyone else. This means that exclusivity is vital – but more importantly you need to make sure that you don’t accidentally mix with people that haven’t attained your social status. The problem is that it is impossible to tell – especially when all you’ve got is a green bathrobe to go on – who is on your perceived status level and who is just an oink in a bathrobe. And so the only solution is to be permanently unfriendly.

The great irony of course being that if you are friendly, you are in their eyes, either of a higher status and confident of it, in which case they want to speak to you, or you are clearly not one of them and so bound to be someone who just happens to be there. I’ve been having some fun with this as being English adds an extra level of confusion. So I have been greeting people non-chalantly with a nod of the head, or smiling as if I recognise them, occasionally saying something in an unusual English accent and then staring down at my book as they try to figure out who I am. It passes the time.

Twat-man

That said, I nearly threw a wooden box at some bloke – called him a wanker – who beckoned a staff member from across the veranda, where I was semi-conscious and resting in the gentle wind, by hissing through his teeth and then beckoning in only a way that a spoilt rich mid-30s man who has never had to do a day’s real work in his life can manage.

The man – who was some distance away – didn’t hear, and so came an even louder and more repulsive hiss followed by an impatient and petulant wave. I nearly show my lack of class by wandering over and telling him he could show a bit more fucking respect to other human beings while he was in my vicinty. But I didn’t. I was too spaced. The Ki had done for Kieren.

Holiday over

I’m heading back tomorrow morning first thing. Back in Blighty just after lunch and a birthday party in Oxford in the evening.

I have to say that this spa malarkey is not a bad way to spend a few days. It ain’t cheap but it certainly is very relaxing. I’m not sure if I’ll be rushing back to one though. It’s not really my kind of place.

Give me four mates, five pints, a pub and then a lazy Sunday watching an old movie while lying in the sun on the sofa and I can hit the same level of contentedness as heading all the way to Tuscany and wandering around in a bathrobe, occasionally donning a hairnet as pants.

I just have to find where I can get a Ki massage in Oxford.

So what? Well, I don’t know. It struck me as strange as it was actually a very witty script, very well acted and it was clear a ton of money had been spent on it, but even despite this, it didn’t feel right – not like the first time I saw Red Dwarf or The Office. So what was missing?> That’s what fascinates me. I was convinced it was a Radio 4 comedy turned into TV but apparently not – I’ve dug about at the official BBC site and, of course, the Wikipedia article that has appeared and it would seem this was just a TV show.

But it still strikes me as having been written for radio. The jokes are too good and the writing too tight. Sad, ain’t it? Anyway, Hyperdrive, BBC Two, Thursday, 9.30pm. The first epsiode will be reshown at 11.30pm BBC2 next Wednesday.

Yes, it is the greatest lack of talent on the planet P Diddy doing what he does best – pretending to be something he isn’t. In this case, both a rapper and English. In an exquisite burst of mind-melting madness, this phoney American singer is introduced by Jamie Oliver and then proceeds to ponce about on stage before giving what you can only assume he thinks is the sort of entry that a consummate entertainer would provide where they to appear at Wembley. He says the following: “So beautiful… so graceful… so compassionate… so royal… an incredible mother… make some noise for Princess Diana, y’all!” before embarking on a rendition of the version of Every Breath You Take that accidentally launched his career. He can’t sing, his voiced is doubled up so you can’t hear it, and then a choir produces the real sound while he makes nonsense comments over the top. “If you’ve come here to celebrate Diana put your hands in the air!”; “Say ‘I love you!’… ‘we miss you!’…”; “Prince william, prince harry, we love you, we respect you…”

Just extraordinary nonsense. Enjoy.

[youtube]eoGsiuttnmk[/youtube]

Or far more interest though is this online petition on GoPetition.com which has already attracted nearly 40,000 signatures from people agreeing with the statement that the logo is “an embarrassment” and should be “dropped as soon as possible”. The signatures are going in at the rate of roughly 30 a second. If this petition hits 100,000 it will make the news, and the London Olympics Committee has already taken the stance that it won’t budge. But if it hits 500,000 then it would have little choice but to scrap it.

I think the survey will hit 150,000 or so and cause some problems, possibly with a couple of MPs seeing their chance to get on the tele. If Ken Livingstone then comes out against it, it could be doomed. Be interesting viewing for a week or so.

Update: The BBC has run a series of alternative suggested logos sent in by readers – some are good (certainly much better that the graffiti monstrosity above), some are funny.