Slim Face Subliminal

[Edie Staniszewski]

Televisionis not supposed to be an event. It's the electronic babysitter, the goggle box, the flickering distraction in the corner that you nod off in front of. So why is it that everything from Coronation Street to the Lost finale is being billed as "Event TV"? Surely it couldn't be a ploy by advertisers to stop us from recording shows to watch at our convenience and fast-forwarding past their sales pitches, could it?

We would believe, from the insistent promotion and trailers, that if we don't watch sociopath Tony Gordon go rampaging round Weatherfield in real time next week, that we'll be missing out. Sorry, this is a soap opera we're talking about, which is on at the time most people have their supper. Tape it and watch it later. It's not as if the denoeument will be announced on the News at Ten and spoil things for us. (Well, I say that. The level of self-importance on ITV1 is such that it wouldn't entirely surprise me.)

I can't feel their pain, dirty young and old leches, but sunshine does bring out the worst in us, sartorially. I'm dumbfounded that any woman feels comfortable in a skirt too short to sit down in on the train (what happens when she walks up the station stairs?) or in a flimsy glorified bikini top (so skimpy that I feel I should follow behind with a cardi for when the halter-neck gives way).

I get it, the good weather is joyous, but there's a time and a place for everything. (This includes men. Don't even think about taking your shirt off in a conurbation.) The worst crimes against summertime fashion marry these beach ensembles with high heels or, worse, cowboy boots. So it's not all about feeling free and breezy then, is it? It's just "Look how hot I am, and I'm not talking temperature...nudge, nudge".

Venus Williams's chosen outfit for the French Open falls firmly into this category. It would be an error to wear this self-designed, scratchy, sweaty black lace basque to a party, never mind play tennis on the world stage in it. Ladies, everyone can tell when someone has long, slim legs or an impressive embonpoint under clothes, you know. Do us all a favour, and I include the lads, and save it for the beach. Or in Venus Williams's case, perhaps, the boudoir.

Must you leave so soon, Nick Griffin? What's that you say? You're stepping down, but not until 2013? Well, talk about puncturing our party balloons, Nick. It's just typical that the kind of good news we need to distract us from swingeing spending cuts turns out to be a red herring. Mr Griffin reckons it'll be time for a younger man to lead the BNP after the party has spent 18 months implementing administrative and political "building blocks". That may well be true, but it will take us to, er, autumn 2011, Nick. Perhaps his adviser is to diary-planning what Bob Bailey is to canvassing.

Don't know what you're waiting for, Nick. If you bugger off now, you might be back in time to make some noise for the next election. Or, let's face it, be first in line when they resurrect Celebrity Big Brother.

3a8082e126