Katie and Alex - Place Your Bets

As 2010 draws to an end, a final blog for the year. Today we touch on the intellect and moral barometer of today's society. Sometimes it's good to reflect on how far we've come.

Bookmakers William Hill have just released their odds for the upcoming year, on the likelihood of celebrity couples staying together during 2011. Katie Price and someone called Alex Reid are favourites to split up, recently shortening from 5/2 to 7/4.

"Our punters seem quite convinced that Katie and Alex are on the rocky road to ruin - it seems as though the only way that this bet will be a loser is if they don't actually make it to 2011," chirped William Hill spokesman Joe Crilly.

Justin Timberlake and Jessica Biel's relationship is also tipped to disintegrate at odds of 5/1; Demi Moore and Ashton Kutcher, and Vernon Kay and Tess Daly are at 6/1 each. Strictly Come Dancing winners Kara Tointon and Artem Chigvintsev have been given 8/1, despite it being unclear as to whether they're yet in a relationship at all.

Lewis Hamilton and Nicole Scherzinger are at 10/1 to fold, but mysteriously, also 3/1 to tie the knot. Prince William and Kate Middleton, who apparently are to marry next April, have been given odds to split of 66/1, the same as David and Victoria Beckham.

You may or may not like these people. But don't you find the idea of betting on the longevity of their relationships a pretty tawdry one? What are William Hill thinking of - or are they just fulfilling a (gulp) customer requirement? Finally the conspiracy theory: how many celebrities actually court this sort of attention, or play up to it?

A happy new year to all my readers - see you on the other side.

Army Santa

Meet Corporal Andy Salisbury. He's twenty-eight, married, with two children: Mollie, four, and Neve, two. But this Christmas, like the last, Andy won't be at home.

Andy's an army chef, working for the Royal Logistics Corps. Right now, he's getting ready to help troops in Afghanistan experience a touch of the traditional home comforts of Christmas. Tomorrow he'll be making Christmas dinner for five thousand troops at Camp Bastion. With his colleagues across Helmand, Andy will be preparing some fifteen thousand mince pies, and three tonnes each of turkey and gammon.

Recently, Cpl Salisbury was interviewed by a local newspaper from his home town in Devon. He said: "Normally I'd be playing with my kids, and treating them by buying too many Christmas presents. I think what I'll miss most is that we've recently bought a house, and this would've been our first family Christmas there."

Unless you've served in the armed forces it's simply impossible to appreciate what our soldiers in Afganistan go through on a daily basis, let alone at Christmas. Let's take just a minute to hold them in our thoughts.

2010: Britain's Defining Moments

Below are some of the major events which have affected Britain over the course of this year. A personal list to be sure; there are many other episodes and incidents which could have been included. Over the last few days I've been asking friends to put the list in order of importance; it's fun to see the variations. In no particular order, obviously, we have:

• The royal engagement

• Gordon Brown's "bigot" comment

• Engerland knocked out of the World Cup by Germany

• Tuition fees riots

• Closure of UK air space because of the Eyjafjallajökull volcano

• The first Coalition press conference

• Glen Miliband becoming leader of the Labour Party

• Engerland losing the 2018 World Cup bid

• The Pope's visit

• Cumbria's shootings

• Tony Bliar facing the Iraq War Inquiry

• George Osborne announcing huge spending cuts

• Our harsh winter weather

• The first televised political party leaders' debate

As for trends, the Pope's visit came in poorly; sport attracted much more interest. The bad weather, being current, was a strong performer but the royal wedding threatened to go negative, its very inclusion challenged more than once. And the winner? Iceland's disruptive volcano, even more memorable than Glen Miliband's unconvincing Labour leadership win.

Dancing On Snow

The 2011 line-up for ITV's show Dancing On Ice has been announced. Among those participating are ex-Coronation Street actor Steven Arnold, rapper Vanilla Ice, and Kerry Katona. Jayne Torvill and Christopher Dean will put the competitors through their paces, while the show's judges will include Robin Cousins.

So what's the appeal to the viewing public? Of course, the judges are peerless; Jayne, Christopher and Robin have every possible technical credential for appearing in such a programme, should they wish to. It's harder to understand why the particular contestants were selected, and what their attraction is.

Jeff Brazier is MSN's 'celebrity blogger' and an ex-partner of Jade Goody. Uh-huh. Elen Rivas is best-known for once being the fiancee of footballer Frank Lampard. Ah yes. Two ex-Hollyoaks actors, a children's TV presenter. Chloe Madeley, daughter of Richard and Judy. Quite so.

If we must have shows like this, I'd prefer the contestants to be unknowns. It might, conceivably, be interesting to watch them develop over the series. Instead though, these programmes are sold to us on the ticket of celebrity participants, stars in whom we should be interested, talented people with pull. Let's take a look at one of them.

Kerry Katona is an English singer, actress, author and television presenter. So says Wikipedia. She was a member of pop trio Atomic Kitten, though she can't play a musical instrument and isn't a songwriter. Kerry's had a variety of children, starred in adverts for budget food chain Iceland, revealed her giblets to the world. She's developed a cocaine habit, and passed through assorted addiction rehab clinics. Kerry's also featured in a string of thought-provoking television programmes: My Fair Kerry, Britain's Sexiest, Kerry and Me.

But her real skill, and that of the people around her, is in capitalising on a succession of publicly-aired experiences in personal turmoil. Kerry's New Search For Love; Kerry's Diet Triumph/Nightmare; Kerry: I'm Clean Now. It's this wretched never-ending parade which, inexplicably, is absorbing to thousands of people.

The one light in next year's show is soldier Johnson Beharry. In March 2005, Lance Corporal Beharry received the Victoria Cross for twice saving members of his unit from ambushes in Iraq. He's the first person outside the 'world of entertainment' or sport to take part in Dancing On Ice. Let's hope he trounces the show-biz no-marks.

Beer Revolution in Cornwall Brewery

A brewer based in Rock, just across from Padstow in Cornwall, has unveiled fifty-two unique food-based ales - one for every week of the year. Stuart Howe’s tipples include Shellfish Stout – made with oysters, cockles and mussels – the super-strength Barley Tikka Vindaloo, and the offal-based Heston’s Offal Strong Ale, which incorporates chicken liver, kidneys and lamb heart.

Also for your delectation is the super-strength 'Turbo Yeast Abomination From Hell', which packs something of a punch at 22 per cent proof.

‘I appreciate they won't suit everyone and some have been a disaster, but it’s been an interesting experiment,’ says Stuart, disarmingly. 'My favourite is probably a citrus fruit beer. I used seven different types of citrus peel as the flavour - there isn't very much of that one left.'

He added: 'I have a hallucinogenic beer with wormwood and other botanicals coming up in a few weeks. I'm really looking forward to that.'

Stuart's next ambition is to make beer using ‘blood plasma’, if he can find a hospital willing to give him some. Maybe after the NYE traditional celebrations have died down.

And Stuart, beware commercial predators - that's a thin stretch of water you've got there.

Charles and Camilla Go For A Ride

I’m not a fan of Prince Charles and Camilla Parker-Bowles. Their unearned position and advantage brings me no joy. Unlike TV news presenters, I don’t go dewy-eyed whenever the subject comes up of ‘the royals’. But what bright spark decided to send Charles and Camilla off to the Royal Variety Show, via a violent student demonstration, in the back of a Rolls-Royce Phantom?

The Phantom was a gift to the Queen from Britain’s Car Association. Until recently it was her vehicle of choice, a high-top with a towering roof-line and enormous windows, painted in royal claret livery. Your average Rolls-Royce is around £250,000 but it’s thought the special model cost over £1 million, by the time all its security measures had been nailed on. It’s thirty-three years old, and has the antiquated, snooty styling of its time.

What a stupendous meeting in Regent Street. On the one hand, a multitude of students, agitators and police who’ve been tormenting each other all day. On the other, an unmistakable symbol of Britain’s highest privilege and rank. As it inched through the demonstrators, the ridiculous, inflammatory Phantom was pelted with bags of rubbish, bottles, traffic cones, barriers and paint.

Of course the royals shouldn’t be obliged to sneak around under cover, but surely these days a less ‘rub-your-face-in-it’ car would be more suitable. The Phantom is an absurd and unnecessary anachronism, out of touch with modern developments … oh, wait a minute …

Police Go Clubbing

During the recent student protest at Westminster Abbey, undergraduate Alfie Meadows was allegedly hit by a truncheon-wielding police officer. He later underwent a three-hour operation to save his life. All told, over fifty people were injured during the demonstration.

Alfie, who's now on the mend, is studying philosophy. Here he is, to our left. Doesn't look like a weapon-carrier, or a man with a naughty dog, does he? More a committed person who feels strongly enough to go on the streets; in doing so, incidentally, he puts to shame today's internet keyboard-warrior brigade.

The rights and wrongs of student finances aren't for this blog, more the behaviour of the boys in blue. Among the students at the demonstration were professional agitators, there to damage property and assault the police. But the police weren't able to weed them out, or marshal the crowds without using violence against legitimate protesters.

This isn't the first time riot squad tactics have come into question. During the G20 demonstration in April 2009 the police managed to find the one innocent bystander not involved, and kill him.

Turkeys' Revenge

Bernard Matthews, founder of the huge company best-known for poultry farming and turkey products, has died. A multi-millionaire, much of his wealth came from such nutritious items as turkey twizzlers, and mechanically-recovered turkey-dinosaur-nuggets. His factories were severely criticised as havens for scavenging birds and rats, their turkey sheds filthy and linked with avian flu.

By an extraordinary quirk of fate, Matthews died on 25 November - in the United States this year, the date on which Thanksgiving fell.

Delicious irony.

Cornwall's Mad Weather

Foreign people find it difficult to understand British preoccupations; concern with tea, cricket and particularly, the weather. In Britain, if you don't mention the weather in conversation at least twenty times a day, you're considered rather dull. And if today's anything to go by, weather is a most exciting topic.

Because today, the weather has been mad. Here in Cornwall we've had early morning snow, but in extraordinary combination with fierce overhead thunder and lightning. Ice-strewn roads on which to play Hirohito School of Motoring. Hail so brutal it would leave dents in the skull of Wayne Rooney. For a moment, vivid sunlight twinkling the dusted trees. But then dark lowering clouds, and snow drifting in banks across our narrow lanes.

And through all this, not a sign, not the merest glimpse of a Council gritter, a bulldozer, a tiny day-glo-bibbed man battling gallantly against the elements. Tonight, the slush which formed earlier has frozen over. Cornwall has become a skating-rink. Villages are cut off, isolated from arterial roads. I hope there aren't too many people who've been forced to try to make a car journey. Thanks to the Council's uselessness, tonight the roads here are really dangerous.

Cornwall's Country Kitchen

One of Cornwall's joys is its food. Not the pricey Padstow emporia of Rick Stein, or Mockney Jamie's Fifteen Newquay dining experience. Nor the bizarre fusion food knocked up at other tourist spots by wannabe celebrity chefs. The cognoscenti know Cornish fare isn't really about dining out.

The other night I was at a garage paying for petrol. Queueing was an old man in ragged clothes. Sharply, he turned to me. "Do you like fish?" I'd never seen him before; in my mind, I edged away. I replied cautiously that I did like fish, yes.

"I been fishing all day, but they made me come back." I nodded, while glancing round for a possible weapon. "There's some in a bucket by the door, help yourself to a couple if you want."

I hurried to pay for the petrol. But just as the old man had said, outside was a bucket. Within, scales gleaming, mackerel, just out of the sea. I took two, and returned to thank the man for his eccentric generosity. He beamed and moved toward me; a moment later I gave him a wave from my car. That evening I cooked the beautiful fish, fresher and with more taste than a supermarket could ever, ever manage.

In Cornwall too, we have wayside produce. During the summer and autumn, in boxes on garden walls across the Duchy coy little displays appear, goodies fresh from the garden, allotment or farm. Invariably they're unattended, but tins are left out for customers' money. Cash of course, the way Cornish people like it, no need to trouble the revenue men. Gnarled, bumpy vegetables, shiny fruit full of flavour, eggs with bulging, vivid yolks rather than pallid little puddles of 'yellow'. All at a fraction of the shop price.

If you're partial to seafood there's a thriving underground trade in crab and lobster, fresh off the boats, sold at the Falmouth dockside. Well actually, just round the back. A little coinage, a big fat crab. I've learned to dress these beasts and they're delicious. For a good deal you need to know the right people, and fortunately I've been introduced. Meanwhile Oliver and his lot are charged the full whack, which they pass on to the tourists.

And who'd bother with supermarket meat? I've found a butcher in Redruth who supplies the most tender, succulent fare at lean prices, straight from the farm down the road. He'll joint it for you, or dice it up for a stew, or score it. His pork chops are thick and obscenely juicy, with golden crackling which deserves to be a Cornish national delicacy. It's to die for, especially if you're the pig.

William and Kate: A Nation Rejoices

Yesterday the joyful news came through. Britain's favourite sweethearts Prince William and Kate Middleton are to marry. The world's most eligible bachelor and his beautiful bride-to-be announced their engagement, as across the nation millions spontaneously cheered and threw their hats in the air. So much for Broken Britain!

Prime Minister David Pillsbury said the engagement marked "a great day for our country". He said he'd received the news in a call from Buckingham Palace during a cabinet meeting, and it had been greeted with "a great cheer" and "banging of the table" from fellow ministers. How like the Tories. Labour leader Glen Milliband, also sensitive to the mood of the people, said: "The whole country will be wishing them every happiness."

The day of the wedding will be marked with a public holiday for those still working, while the unemployed will be put to organising lovely parties enabling everyone to forget their problems. Since public services are being cut, welfare payments slashed and the armed forces axed, thankfully we can afford to spend the savings on priorities like a royal wedding!

It's certainly a big step up for lucky Kate, whose parents run a small mail-order party-planning business. Whether their little company nets a slice of the wedding action remains to be seen. William said he'd been "torn between asking Kate's dad first, and the realization that if I did that, he might say no!" Wills' heart must have been in his mouth.

The Prince of Wales has generously agreed to contribute his own money towards the cost of the wedding. Charles' donation will be taken from his income received from the Duchy of Cornwall's grateful residents, currently estimated at abrillion pounds a year.

Already, souvenir-makers are working feverishly, mindful that memorabilia of previous royal nuptials inexplicably remains sought-after by mad collectors. Plates and mugs - similar to those produced for the fairytale wedding of William's father to Lady Diana Spencer - have been rushed onto the market. All items will be made here in the UK, to ensure a record growth in British industry.

By the by, when Charles and his life-time mistress Camilla eventually married, among the most popular mementos was a fine bone china mug, featuring two entwined letter Cs.

Armistice Day: The Unknown Soldier

A few feet inside the main entrance to Westminster Abbey is a black marble tombstone, permanently surrounded by a border of greenery and poppies. In a place where monarchs and statesmen, scientific pioneers and composers are buried, it is the only gravestone in the Abbey that may not be walked upon, and contains the remains of an unidentified soldier of the First World War.

The remains of the soldier were laid to rest in a solemn ceremony on Armistice Day 1920, ninety years ago today, in a service attended by King George V and his family. The following year, the US government announced that it was awarding its highest military decoration – the Congressional Medal of Honor – to the man whose remains are buried here. The medal may be seen today in a frame hanging on a pillar a little way from the tomb.

The idea for the commemoration came from Army chaplain David Railton. While serving with the British Expeditionary Force in 1916, he visited a private garden in Armentières, where a rough wooden cross had been erected. Across which had been pencilled “An unknown British soldier”. After the war, Railton suggested to the Dean of Westminster, Herbert Ryle, that a tomb containing the remains of an unidentified British soldier be installed in the Abbey, a symbolic memorial to all who lost their lives in the great conflict, but who lacked any monument.

Selection of a body took place in France in 1920. The remains of four men were exhumed from war graves in four of the principal battlefields in France and Flanders: Arras, the Somme, the Aisne and Ypres. One of the bodies was chosen at random and was placed in a plain coffin.

On 10 November 1920, the coffin was sealed inside another, more ornate one incorporating within its iron bands a 16th century crusader’s sword from the collection at the Tower of London. For the ceremony on Remembrance Day, the coffin was placed on a gun carriage and drawn by six black horses through crowd-lined streets to Westminster Abbey. It was handed towards its final resting-place by a hundred recipients of the Victoria Cross. After it had been lowered into the tomb, King George scattered a handful of earth from a French battlefield over the coffin.

The Westminster Abbey tomb was by no means the first ever to an unknown soldier. The idea seems to have originated with a Danish memorial erected in Fredericia in the 19th century, but it did inspire a whole host of other such memorials throughout Europe and the US. There is an unknown French soldier of the Great War beneath the Arc de Triomphe in Paris. Unknown soldiers rest in South Africa and Canada too, and at the US national cemetery at Arlington, Virginia rest unknown soldiers from several wars.

Christine Bleakley: Global Brand

Christine Bleakley rose to celebrity superstardom as the bubbly co-presenter of the BBC's 'One Show'. She left the programme last June, concerned over its intellectual integrity, but was fortunate in subsequently signing to ITV for a million pounds a year.

To the delight of fans, the deal reunited her with engaging former colleague Adrian Chiles; the two were given ITV's prime early morning slot. Their programme, hookily christened Daybreak, launched in September.

Yesterday's edition of the show - which replaced GMTV - drew around 700,000 viewers, while BBC's Breakfast had 1.8 million. Audience figures show that at around 8am the BBC show had almost three times as many viewers with 2.6 million, compared with Daybreak's 900,000.

Last night, a friend close to the Nothern Irish brunette said: ‘Christine is extremely frustrated that Daybreak’s ratings aren’t improving. The biggest problem is that if she did drop Daybreak, ITV can’t just conjure a hit prime-time show for her out of thin air."

Indeed, a grave difficulty. Such talent deeply deserves an appropriate platform. Giggling, gurning, face-painting: is Christine fabulous, or just supremely irritating and greedy? The rumour is, she'll soon be leaving Daybreak to 'work with' X-Factor. Don't ask me how she's qualified for that move, apart from X-Factor being an idiotic programme, or why she's on television at all.

Magic Roundabout

The other day I drove from Falmouth on Cornwall's south coast, to Davidstow in the far north. It's a pleasant journey if you're not in a great rush, like many road-trips across the Duchy. The drive was uneventful, except for one disturbing theme.

Roundabout issues. Not the drivers whose indicators I always assume have unfortunately become broken. Nor the after-you, hesitation-waltz we have to endure from countless confused tourists round these parts. But everywhere, workmen.

On four separate roundabouts along the journey, I noticed gangs of labourers. You're supposed to, which is why they wear hi-vis apparel. But what were they doing there? Just slouching around of course, amid piles of unused barriers protecting nothing, surrounded by daffodil-yellow trucks.

But why were they there at all? The job of work, it seemed, was planting flowers and shrubs, raking gravel, doing a bit of weeding, all very slowly. Can't have our roundabouts looking tawdry.

I assume all this type of work is sponsored by the private sector. I'd hate to think that in these austere times our local councils are squandering public money on such activities.

The Apprentice: Melissa Cohen

It's a compelling, can't-tear-yourself-away TV horror story. You are an intelligent person. You watch documentaries and animal programmes. Your television is never left on in the background. But The Apprentice has you in thrall.

This series, with a couple of exceptions the candidates for Lord Sugar's favours are especially odious; absurd posturing, paper-thin skill sets and ghastly, coached self-praise. Because they're so unattractive, the viewer looks forward to their downfall. Generally it doesn't really matter which one is fired.

But last night we watched the exit of quite the worst-behaved contender yet. Over the last few weeks Melissa Cohen has horrified us with non-stop aggression. She could start a fight in an empty room, yet feels she's a great team player. We know this because she tells us.

Self-promotion is Melissa's 'core skill', as she'd probably put it. Throughout the series her only real contribution, apart from arguing with colleagues, has been talking herself up. Occasionally she's made ill-judged lunges toward responsibility, but has then quickly retreated to the background.

Melissa also liked to treat vocabulary as a linguistic Rubik's Cube. This gave rise to her very own words: 'comfortability', 'conversate', 'manoeuverments', and without a trace of irony, 'my professionality'. Idiotic and self-possessed, or really rather endearing and fragile? You decide.

After Melissa was fired, she wouldn't shake hands with the two other nominees. She felt she'd been ganged up on. Why could that possibly have been?

Business is all about grace under pressure. You've got a lot to learn, baby.

Rooney vs Ferguson 2

Should I stay or should I go? To the relief of weeping millions across the globe, Wayne Rooney has changed his er mind and will remain at Manchester United. A simple contract negotiation carried almost to the brink by his agent, probably. Did he ever really intend to leave?

Rooney's signed a five-year contract for an undisclosed wage thought to be as much as a whopping £250,000 per week. Worldwide, only Messi and Ronaldo are in the same league. The news comes as Britain faces big job losses, as well as cutbacks in public services and welfare benefits; some have criticised the size of Rooney's pay packet. These jealous people should simply have tried harder at school.

Due to injury though, Rooney's not actually able to play for a few weeks. He's told his adoring fanbase, "I certainly can't wait to pull on the red shirt." Presumably a shirt formerly belonging to Alex Ferguson.

But Ferguson has at least kept his man, saying: "I'm delighted Wayne's agreed to stay." Rooney replied: "I said on Wednesday the manager's a genius and it's his belief and support that convinced me to stay." All chums again then. Rooney is the first of Ferguson's players to get the better of him, good to see of course, but a real indication of Spud's power.

Rooney vs Ferguson 1

He's off. No more badge-kissing, at least for Manchester United; the spud-faced kid from Liverpool's backstreets is leaving. Wayne Rooney has to think of his future. Perhaps the Light Blues across the city will buy him. Chelsea also have oodles of money. Or maybe a foreign club will come in, presumably from a land where English is widely spoken. Otherwise, Wayne will have no friends.

But for me it's not Rooney who's of interest in this story. I don't mind who he plays for. It's more about Manchester United's manager, Alex Ferguson. Fergie.

For years, Ferguson has come across as a dour controlling bully who, if his face is anything to go by, drinks whisky in more than generous measures. He's fallen out with the BBC, refused post-match interviews, instead putting acolytes before the cameras. Ferguson's rants over refereeing decisions easily top other managers' post-match moans. And any dissent from his players, even big stars, down the road they go: Beckham, Stam, van Nistelrooy.

We also have 'Fergie Minutes'. This is extra time allegedly added to games Manchester Utd aren't winning, forced on hapless, pressured officials by Ferguson's belligerent presence at the touch-line, demanding just a few more seconds for another attack, another goal.

So it was a pleasant experience to watch the Old Trafford manager on television, bewildered and disappointed, as he announced Rooney's decision. He was quick to deny they'd fallen out, saying, "We are as bemused as anyone can be, we can't understand why he would want to leave." Ferguson said the "door is still open" for Rooney to stay, but admitted feeling dumbfounded when he learned of the player's desire to go.

Clearly, United's chief asset has shaken his unlovable boss, who signed him from Everton in August 2004. And if Rooney does leave, his former club will scoop a small fortune. Everton have a sell-on clause in his contract; they will get 25% of any sum over the £27m United paid for him. A good outcome for Toffees boss David Moyes, who seems a thoroughly decent chap.

Margaret Thatcher 'Not Dead'

Baroness Thatcher has been admitted to hospital. The much-loved 85-year-old former Conservative Prime Minister entered the private Cromwell Hospital in west London yesterday for precautionary tests, as she'd been feeling 'groggy'. Outside the hospital huge crowds waited in torrential rain, anxious for news of the revered control-freak's progress.

According to son Mark, Baroness Thatcher is likely to stay in for a couple of days. But who can really say? It's well-known that sadly, her faculties are now much diminished. To the disappointment of millions she no longer speaks in public.

Thatcher (in hospital bed): "I used to be Prime Minister you know, dear."

Nurse: Of course you did Margaret. Now, arms up."

Cameron's Defence Cuts

Yesterday, David Cameron announced the defence cuts facing Britain's armed forces. Military missions such as the Falklands campaign will be a thing of the past. Britain will never be able to fight another war alone.

Over 17,000 military personnel will go. The expectation is that 15,000 jobs will be axed when Britain withdraws from Afganistan. Not a great show of thanks for the military's work there.

For the future Britain will become highly dependent on allies, who can afford things Britain can't. This is passed off as the benefit of interoperability. In particular, apparently France has agreed make available its aircraft carriers Vichy and Mers-el-Kebir to work with the Royal Navy. The situation's come about because Britain is about to scrap flagship HMS Ark Royal and probably Illustrious, and will spend two years without any carriers at all.

Cameron can't take all the credit for this remarkable turn of events. A “bilateral carrier group interoperability initiative” was proposed back in March 2008 by French president Nicolas Sarkozy, during discussions with Gordon Brown in London. The Ministry of Defence susbsequently described the talks as "aspirational". Whatever would Nelson have said?

But the British Navy will eventually receive two replacement flat-tops of its own. The first will arrive by 2016 if the timetable is to be believed, the second by 2019 when the first will be mothballed. This bizarre plan is felt cheaper than amending the programme in any way, or axing it.

That said, there's no great rush to get the new carriers into service, which will suit the dead hand of MOD's procurement arm. Fixed-wing aircraft won't be available until 2020. For the decade to come, Britain will have no carrier strike capability.

Because next year, the Navy's Harrier jump-jet carrier-borne fleet will be scrapped. These aircraft have been praised worldwide, developed and exported successfully, and are combat-proven. They're also less expensive than the Tornado, which is being retained. When in turn the Tornado shuffles off, it will be replaced by the Typhoon, another RAF type. Royal Air Force 1, Royal Navy 0.

Aircraft carriers without jets; who came up with that? Hard-drinking Defence Secretary Liam Fox, who's warned the cuts will be made "ruthlessly and without shentiment." But Admiral Lord West, the former First Sea Lord, said last night it would be "nonsensical" to scrap the Harriers before their replacements were delivered.

When it finally arrives, the new carrier jet force will consist of just forty Joint Strike Fighters rather than the 130 previously stated. The JSF is currently under development by an international team - like the Typhoon, which was completed years late.

The RAF's Nimrod MRA4 maritime patrol aircraft is also a casualty of the cuts, but a deserved one. Lumbering and shockingly overspent, the project to upgrade the old aeroplane has finally been put to sleep. The updated aircraft would have come into service nine years late. How's that for benchmark management? Both MOD and BAE Systems should hang their heads in shame.

A decision over the Trident replacement programme has been put off. In five years' time, when it's planned the dusty file will be re-opened, Britain's defence budget will be so small the nuclear deterrent may slip away once and for all. Is this the secret hope of some Coalition members?

Fall-out caused by the announcement has been international. America's blonde bombshell Secretary of State has hinted that because of the cuts, the 'special relationship' between Britain and the USA may come under strain. But never fear. David Cameron has reassured Barack Obama Britain will remain "a first-rate military power." The Falkland Islanders' views have yet to be heard.

Cameron's also cheered us with news that recently, Nicolas Sarkozy has moved to "engage more with NATO." France is in the throes of rejoining NATO after forty years of self-imposed exile. For a putative military partner this seems a good thing. Then again, maybe Sarkozy's broke too.

Prince Philip: Bon Mots

As he approaches his nineties, in some ways the Duke of Edinburgh is doing OK. He's still quite healthy and agile for a man of his advanced years, his eye for the ladies remains active, he continues to blast away for fun at animals and birds.

But sadly, these days Prince Philip seems to speak less in public. Maybe the Queen has finally curbed his propensity for verbal gaffes; at last, perhaps, his aides have reined him in. Throughout his public life Philip's offensive remarks have been portrayed by the obsequious media as 'unfortunate blunders' and 'attempts to reach the ordinary people'. He's provided entertainment for millions, cheered the nation with lofty, thoughtless insults scattered among those obliged to meet him. Here are a few of the Prince's priceless witticisms over the years:

• He angered deaf people during a visit to the Welsh Assembly. While he was with a group from the British Deaf Association who were standing near a band, he pointed to the musicians and said: "Deaf? If you are near there, no wonder you are deaf."

• In 1996 he caused an outcry among gun law reformers when he said: "There's no evidence that people who use weapons for sport are any more dangerous than people who use golf clubs or tennis rackets or cricket bats."

• He told a Briton he met in Hungary during 1993: "You can't have been here that long - you haven't got a pot belly."

• In 1995 he asked a Scottish driving instructor: "How do you keep the natives off the booze long enough to pass the test?"

• The Prince enraged local people in Lockerbie during a visit to the town in 1993. He said to a man who lived in a road where eleven people had been killed by wreckage from the Pan Am jumbo jet: "People usually say that after a fire it's water damage that's the worst. We are still trying to dry out Windsor Castle."

• During a Royal visit to China in 1986 he described Peking as "ghastly" and told British students: "If you stay here much longer you'll all be slitty-eyed."

• He said of Canada: "We don't come here for our health. We can think of other ways of enjoying ourselves."

• At the height of the recession in 1981 he said: "Everybody was saying we must have more leisure. Now they're complaining they're unemployed."

• In 1966 he provoked outrage by saying: "British women can't cook."

• Commenting on stress counselling for servicemen in a TV documentary on the 50th Anniversary of D-Day, he said: "It was part of the fortunes of war. We didn't have counsellors rushing around every time somebody let off a gun, asking `are you all right - are you sure you don't have a ghastly problem?'. You just got on with it."

The Duke of Edinburgh, a Great Use of Public Money: Discuss.

Jeremy Kyle: TV To Be Ashamed Of

Recently, a guest on TV's Jeremy Kyle Show hit the presenter in the head with a heavy envelope containing DNA test results which proved he was the father of his girlfriend's baby. Hurled from behind with great force, the envelope's edge caught Kyle around the ear.

Clearly shaken, Kyle turned to confront his guest who threatened to "knock him out." Two bouncers stepped in to calm the situation before it escalated, unfortunately.

The man, named only as Kev, and his girlfriend Elana appeared on an episode called, "Will our relationship survive two lie detector tests and a DNA test." Not included were tests such as general knowledge.

To find suitable guests for his programme, Kyle drives to run-down areas in an ice-cream van full of crack. He parks outside Pound Shops and Cash Converters, laying nets and handing out tickets and drugs. Two weeks later, presto - on one side of the studio a group of fat ugly people, all related and all sleeping with each other; on the other a baying, prurient audience. Kyle stands between them taking the piss and generally, nobody gets it. But every so often it can be a risky business for the pint-sized personality which is why, just out of shot, the bodyguards are on call to protect him. That, and the added dramatic effect if they have to act.

Really, even ITV should be ashamed. The whole purpose of the Jeremy Kyle Show is to present a morbid and depressing succession of dysfunctional people who are in some kind of turmoil. The programme titillates viewers who have nothing better to do with their afternoons than to sit and watch a human form of bear-baiting, which inexplicably goes under the guise of entertainment.

Miliband To Lead Labour

In a sledge-hammer victory today, Glen Miliband has swept to power as new leader of the Labour Party. Glen's plucky brother David also ran in the leadership contest along with three other no-hopers, but the result was never in doubt; a ringing endorsement for the younger man by a landslide voting margin of 0.00002%. Jubilant Labour supporters clapped hesitantly as the news was announced at the party's annual conference.

The results were revealed in alphabetical order, starting with Diane Abbott, the Hackney North and Stoke Newington MP and the only woman in the race, followed by Ed Balls and Andy Burnham, and finally the two Milibands – David, then Glen. How fortuitous that the comic element came first, and that the announcement climaxed with the final candidate's win; will the fourth estate root out a conspiracy?

Throughout his leadership campaign Glen presented himself as the change candidate, who if elected would end the era of Bliar and Chuckles. On the other hand, brother David was once a follower of Bliar and later Rasputin's glove-puppet: a Continuity candidate. One of his principal allies in the leadership race was Alastair Campbell. Could those associations possibly have contributed to his downfall?

During the campaign Glen prudently distanced himself from Bliar, referring to him as 'Little Brown Jug-Ears'. But among his chief backers are the trade unions. Tony Woodley, joint leader of the Unite union, said of the result: "His victory is a clear sign that the party wants change, to move on from New Labour and reconnect with working people." Back to Labour's reliance on the beer-and-skittles brigade then, together with the inevitable left-wing hostage politics. See how far the party has come; Prescott for deputy leader?

Polar Bear Found On Cornish Beach

When information came in yesterday morning of a polar bear washed up on a Cornish beach, our local ITV station was first to break the news. West Country's breakfast bulletin reported that an animal more commonly spotted in the Arctic had turned up at the North Cornish seaside town of Bude. Remarkable footage showed a large white beast lying dead on the shore. Presenter Naomi Lloyd told us, "The bear comes from the North Pole, and an investigation is underway as to how it could have ended up in Bude." Quite so.

Alas for the bumbling yokels at West Country, tales of the polar bear turned out to be a mistake. Closer inspection revealed it was actually a cow. The animal had been bleached white by sea water.

The item was dropped from later bulletins, but red-faced ITV bumpkins insisted it had been an easy mistake to make. "The cow caused quite a stir in Bude. Several people had seen it from the cliff top and thought it was a polar bear," a perspiring spokesman said. "Its size and colour and its position on the beach made it look like a polar bear, and we had several calls." Someone else's fault, then. When Naomi Lloyd began her career in journalism, was she a cub reporter?

GCSE Animalology ungraded teenagers would have realised the unlikeliness of a polar bear appearing on Cornish shores; the closest they get to Britain is Greenland. But this isn't the first time something unusual has washed up at Bude; during 2008, seven suitcase-sized packages of cocaine were found on the beach. A surprisingly interesting place.

Dirty Books

A while ago I visited Porthleven, on Cornwall's south coast between Helston and Penzance. A village 'fun day' was in full swing. Side-shows, stalls, raffles. Face-painting and balloons. Elderly ladies selling cakes the like of which supermarkets will never, ever be able to create. Under the hot sun I worked my way along the stands, looking for a bargain here and there, until I came to the book stall.

In front of me, a lady was thumbing through the spines; in charge of the stall was a middle-aged woman with frosted hair, pearls and a starchy blouse. One of the local doers of good works, I supposed. The lady selected several battered paperbacks, but paid only a pound or so.

I turned to frosted-hair woman and attempted engagement. "Your prices are very reasonable", I ventured.

She had a rather plummy voice, which carried, and to my delight replied, "Well, we charge less for the dirty books."

There are times when your options are just too many. In the end I fixed her with a faux-outraged glare and managed, "I wasn't looking for anything like that, madam." How would she react?

Once again I'd got it wrong. Instead of tutting or colouring up, she laughed with a raucous heartiness I simply couldn't have predicted. We got into a long conversation about this and that which lasted most of the afternoon, interspersed by punters and cups of tea. A lovely day and I bought a couple of books, but nothing too racy.

Pope: I Was Only Following Holy Orders (2)

Catholic church officials are grudgingly conceding fewer people than expected will watch Benedict XVI beatify Cardinal John Newman at Birmingham on Sunday. They blame the early start, with pilgrims having to board coaches for the venue in the middle of the night, rather than the £25 ticket price. The church is defiantly confident that the Pope's visit to Britain will be successful and, ever optimistic, is marshalling volunteers to man phonelines for all those wanting to convert following this week’s event.

The British Government has set aside £10million to pay for the pontiff's brief trip, excluding security. All tax-payers are therefore contributing, whether or not they're Catholics. The church has been obliged to chip in a further £10m to cover costs of the three outdoor 'pastoral' events, but has so far only scraped up £6.2m. Of course, the gap could easily be bridged by parting with some minor art treasure snaffled away in the Vatican. In the meantime, with ticket take-up vastly overestimated, thousands of excess 'pilgrim passes' are being given away to schools and rest-homes.

Britain's most senior Catholic official, Cardinal Keith O'Brien, said the moral value of Benedict's visit "far outweighs any cost value." For practicing Catholics, perhaps. The Cardinal continued: "It improves morality in the Catholic Christian community. It will outweigh any fears, any worries, any depression that folk might feel about the cost. I look forward to it very, very positively." Well good for you, old son.

Meanwhile, many grave issues within the Catholic church remain unresolved. Benedict XVI has underlined traditional Catholic teaching on artificial contraception. He took the opportunity to emphasise his beliefs during a trip to Africa, a continent that desperately needs every effective method to combat the AIDS pandemic. The Pope's recommended solution is abstinence. On top of that, he's attacked gay unions, abortion, and IVF treatment.

The Catholic church has also failed to surrender to the proper authorities its ranks of paedophile priests. Instead, we're assured of the church's sorrow, that the 'situation' will never be the same again. But of the loathsome culprits there is no sign; no Catholic custodian of decency has handed over these vile people to be punished by the law. While police operations have lead to prosecutions, the church has not co-operated in a drains-up, transparent investigation. Very reassuring, as ticket sales for Benedict's visit deservedly reflect.

Spot The Difference (3)

Former presenter of the BBC's One Show. After gurning her way to stardom, she left the programme because of artistic differences.










Ape. Tipped to receive a prominent part in the television documentary Footballers' Wives.

Red Arrows

Earlier today I was beavering away at London Acres, drafting a feature. Every so often I heard aircraft overhead, which I like; maybe the search and rescue Sea King from Culdrose, the Trinity House helicopter, Cornwall's Air Ambulance. Occasionally too, the whistle of an Adour turbojet; a Hawk from FRADU. But suddenly I was enveloped by a huge roar, quite beyond the familiar background sounds. As part of the Fal River Festival, the Red Arrows have come to town.

I joined some neighbours with a glass of wine, and we watched the display over the river. As ever, marvellous aerobatics, stomach-churning close passes, evil pilots fading out of proceedings, then appearing from nowhere to startle the crowds below.

Not a bad view from the back door.

Public House of Horrors

Around ten years ago I met up with some people who lived in Penryn, just outside Falmouth. Their pub of choice was the Cross Keys, run by a lovely couple named John and Rose. Great beer and food, clean, and of course strict Cornish adherence to the licensing laws.

But John and Rose left to travel the world beyond Penryn. The Cross Keys went downhill, became dirty and poorly-run, changed hands often. On a Sunday lunchtime, instead of huge, well-cooked roast dinners we were treated to pilled-up kids, plus the returning scumbags and derelicts who'd been barred by John and Rose. We took our business elsewhere, and the Cross Keys continued to sink into Penryn's wider mire; finally, it shut.

Boarded up, the Keys stayed on the market for many months; I passed it the other week, neglected and grimy. But I hear that finally it has a new owner, outside the licensed trade. The building will be used to provide a residential centre for people with behavioural difficulties.

Business as usual then.

Alex Higgins

Alex Higgins smoked heavily, drank with extreme gusto. He looked as though, as a kid, he'd had a paper-round in down-town Beirut. And now at the age of sixty-one, after a long battle with throat cancer, snooker's legendary player has left us.

Off the table, time and again, Higgins behaved terribly badly. The day after his second World Championship win in 1982 he appeared before the sport's governing body, which fined him a thousand pounds for misdemeanours including urinating in a flowerpot at the Crucible. He was also given to threats and assaults involving match officials and other players.

But the Hurricane made the game what it is today. Fans of the sport embraced him as their 'people's champion'; he transformed snooker's popularity. Erratic and jumpy around the table, a virtuoso long-potter, Alex wore his heart on his sleeve and the public loved him for it. Like George Best, a contemporary Belfast wild boy, Higgins may never have understood how he achieved his brilliance, but his presence at the table was often nothing short of mesmerising. Millions of television viewers will long remember his reaction after he sealed his second World Championship victory, when he cried out for his baby daughter Lauren. It remains one of the sport's most emotional and enduring images.

War Machines: Big Boys' Toys

Today I nipped up to Davidstow airfield, high on the cliffs of north Cornwall. The airfield dates from the Second World War; nowadays it's still used by microlight enthusiasts, and also hosts the thriving Davidstow Airfield & Cornwall at War Museum.

This weekend the museum held its annual War Machines gathering, and the Military Vehicle Trust turned up in support. Among the favourites for me were the beautifully turned-out Dodge WC51 truck which I later had a ride in, the Russian GAZ jeep, and the wartime Harley WLA motorcycle ridden by a very efficient MP. These vehicles are living pieces of history, maintained by enthusiasts to exceptional standards.

Also on offer was a tour of the airfield's wartime archeology, made in Marlene, a tiny electric bus. Volunteer Rod Knight gave a lively commentary, and brought the old ruins to life. Back at the museum, on display was its most recent acquisition, a Vampire jet trainer cockpit section.

But the day's highlight was the military vehicle run, as the exhibits took to the local roads for a blast from the past. Thanks to the kindness of museum proprietor Steve Perry, I was given a seat in the leading vehicle. We ran down to a local workshop where telly star James May and his team of schoolchildren had built a mock-up 'Airfix' Spitfire. We found it under refurbishment, prior to a final resting place with the RAF Museum. After that it was off to a nearby wartime emergency landing-ground, now private property, to look around the remains there.

Try as I might, I've never imagined myself racing through the streets of Delabole perched up in the commander's position of a Ferret armoured car.

Local Government: Waste Disposal

Local government is squirming. Chancellor George Osborne wants our views on how to reduce the current £156 billion budget deficit. Recently he said every public spending programme must be scrutinised to determine whether it's essential and if so, how it can be carried out more economically.

As part of this initiative, local government is under the microscope. Often out-of-step with the communities it serves, tardy and wasteful, the public sector is about to take a well-deserved shoeing. But this need not lead to further service cuts. Before we get started on big salaries and payoffs, here are some examples of the sort of local government profligacy you'd think might be reined in.

£5 million a year - spent by several councils on permanent staff and offices in Brussels, to liaise with MEPs.

£1.65 million - the total cost to several councils for 'topple-testing', to ensure gravestones are safe.

£1.4 million - spent on 'morale-boosting' trips. Staff from Lewisham stayed in a spa hotel in Kent which cost £10,635. Richmond spent £85,980 on thirteen staff away days. Mansfield Council found £17,066 to send staff to a ‘senior management team workshop’. Forest Heath Council in Suffolk likes to ‘integrate' new staff at Center Parcs, while Windsor Council preferred a £2,100 ‘team-building’ trip to Legoland. Gedling Council in Nottingham paid £1,000 for go-karting, archery lessons, and Laser Quest.

£750,000 - blown by Cambridgeshire Council on additional staff, leaflets, a hotline, promotional DVDs and coffee mornings, to find out whether residents wanted to switch control of their properties to a housing association. Just 269 people replied, which makes the cost of each response £2,788.

£501,000 - the bill for emergency IT work and lost revenue, after a member of staff at Ealing Council accidentally plugged an infected memory stick into the work computer.

£500,000 - the total amount spent by several councils hiring 'celebrities' to make appearances and give awards to staff. Chef James Martin received £15,000 from Tewkesbury Council in Gloucestershire to appear at a food festival. Two X-Factor rejects, Diana Vickers and Ruth Lorenzo shared £11,000 from North Devon Council to appear at a sports event. Barbara Windsor was paid £6,000 to hand out awards to employees at East London's Newham Council.

£160,000 - spent by one parish councillor in Somerset in pursuance of 177 complaints against colleagues over eighteen months.

£150,000 - spent by Bournemouth Council on an employee earning £50,000, to fly him to and from work because he lives in Scotland and they couldn't find anyone nearer.

£124,000 - the total annual pay and bonus of an electrician working for Birmingham City Council, including more than £90,000 in overtime.

£36,000 - cost of Wirral Council's scheme teaching the public how to catch a bus. This is an annual scheme.

£15,000 - spent on a wind turbine that didn't work, after Ipswich Borough Council placed it in a valley surrounded by trees.

£5,000 - wasted by Kirklees Council taking a teenager to court over a dropped sweet wrapper.

£3,000 - the bill for putting members of Oldham Council up in a luxury hotel so they could discuss budget cuts.

Not included in the above is the sum Portsmouth City Council spent producing a taxi-driver licence application form in Braille. Unsurprisingly perhaps, they weren't keen to disclose the amount.

Paul The Octopus

The World Cup is over. Paul the octopus, the world's greatest oracle, sport's best-ever tipster, is to retire.

Paul became a pop culture sensation by correctly predicting the outcome of as many World Cup matches as he has legs - all seven of Germany's games, and the Spain-Netherlands final. His crazy second-sight antics were some of the genuine high-spots of the tournament. But now, he's putting his feet up.

Though Paul was born in Weymouth, Engerland, he currently lives in Germany at the The Sea Life Oberhausen aquarium. A spokesperson said the intuitive invertebrate will "go into retirement and do what he likes to do best: play with his handlers and delight children who come to visit him".

But rumours persist that actually, Paul is busy writing his autobiography. He's also said to be in talks with a record company over the release of a year-end seasonal hit titled 'The Eight Days of Christmas'. It's been reported too that Paul has refused jobs as a UK economist, and as a consultant to Fabio Capello.

Perhaps he'll come out of retirement for the 2012 European Championship, another football competition. In the meantime Paul, ride the wave of celebrity, exploit every sucker you can.