... Are Brilliant Mark X

This entry combines the factors which made the weekend before last in that London so terrifically terrific.

Henry V at the Globe. Cracking play, matchless venue. Have raved about the Globe before and will do so again. Some right gormless knobs in the audience mind. I gave them my famous Paddington Bear glare. Usually does the trick.

Abigail's Party at Wyndham's Theatre. Good play, lovely old theatre, half bottles of champagne available. Audience a little subdued but no glaring knobs.

Barolo. Shit man that stuff is good. Polished off the best part of a bottle (I let Helen help me a bit) with my lobster at Isolabella in that Holborn. Good restaurant. Unpretentious. Multo affordable. Popular. Book at Isolabella Restaurant.

The Bomber Command Memorial in Green Park. 55573 members of Bomber Command gave their lives in the Second World War. My grandfather was a comrade. He survived for which I am ever grateful. A picture of him in his dress uniform sits on my desk. When he died a natural death in 1985 it was the first time I had known a friend die. He did no impression of a perfect man but he, like so many of his generation, was forced to be a great one. He would have done no more than turn away from the pious right-on views of Jonathan Jones in the Guardian (The Grauniad Speaks) but I am from an emotionally incontinent generation so I will say this - what a knob van.

Not all is bad in the Guardian however. Most of it is (two words: Polly Toynbee) but Simon Jenkins speaks for most of us when he skewers the prize shits who populate our banks - Banking keeps getting away with it. And I'm sorry, I really don't care whether Bob Diamond knew what was going on (though one has to ask what he was doing if he didn't sodding well know) - on your watch matey boy the bank (in which I and various other foolish innocents are shareholders) was fined £295 million (that's 295000000 - it helps to set the noughts out in full) for its misfeasance so it seems to me you ought to be compelled to give back some of the spondulicks you've conned out of my pension. And thank your lucky stars you're not in prison.

And last but never least, Sharon Roberts, whose significant birthday we were celebrating in that London. Sharon,
 " whose beauty claims
    No worse a husband than the best of men;"
and who like poor old Octavia didn't quite get what she deserved in marriage, but at least I won't be shacking up with an Egyptian. She could have done so much better but every day I'm glad she didn't.