It was a very noisy audience though, and frankly I didn't approve.  I did check with Andrea at the interval that it was indeed Wednesday and not Saturday, as it was turning out to be a very Saturday type audience (i.e. people who've come to Stratford on a bus and feel that while they're here they ought to see a play even though they don't like Shakespeare). There was an extraordinary amount of coughing and sniffing, and several people having 'chats' during some of the soliloquies, which is incredibly rude and made me long for the death penalty to be re-introduced.

Andrea and I did think about setting up a vigilante usherette society where we would be equipped with night vision goggles and tasers.  It would be excellent.  I had at least half a dozen people on my hit list last night.  To get on to my old lady soap box (very carefully, you have to watch your hips), I think it's outrageous that someone would pay thirty quid to go to the theatre to have a chat.  Apart from the fact that it's wildly disrespectful of the rest of the audience and the poor actors, it's much cheaper to stay at home and have a chat in your kitchen, and you're less likely to get tasered by me.  That's got to be a bonus.

There were lots of young people.  I also wondered if they were, dare I say it, 'students', which they might have been, judging from their interesting clothing choices and some fantastically improbable hair don'ts.  The white person's afro seems to be having a bit of resurgence.  It's a shame really as I wasn't  a huge fan of it the first time round.  I don't mind black people's afros, like dread locks, they just seem to work so much better that way.  But white dreadlocks and 'fro's just look ridiculous.  They seem to grow rather like out of control box hedges.  It made me long to get out a big pair of shears and set about me.  No doubt there would have been a few ears lost in the mix along the way, but as it was a very bloody play anyway, nobody would have noticed too much.

Having said that, there aren't many schools that can be teaching Henry VI, surely?  It's not known as one of the big show stoppers in the Shakespearean canon.  If my education was anything to go by you invariably get saddled with Romeo and Juliet, The Merchant of Venice and Hamlet, whether you like it or not.  Mostly not, I might add.  Hamlet I can just about live with.  I really can't stomach R&J, not even with Leonardo Di Caprio.  He mumbles too much, and he looks like he needs a good wash.  His mother really ought to take him in hand.  I dread to think what a state his bedroom is in.  Lots of clumps of tissues and an interestingly fetid aroma no doubt...

I think I've mentioned my aversion to Leo before, so we'd better move swiftly on to pastures new before I start waxing lyrical once more.

I must add here that I am in no way critical of student clothing habits, as this is one area where I have no sartorial leg to stand on.  My dress habits as a teenager and student were strange, bordering on the bizarre, and it is a wonder that my parents ever went anywhere with me in public.  It can be chalked up as a plus point on their score sheet and brought out in their defence when the therapy bills are finally tallied up.  I've mentioned this before too, but it's late, and I'm tired and I'm beginning to show off...

I was a stupendously unattractive young woman, and decided very early on that there was no way that I was ever going to compete with flocks of lithe and lissom beauties (indeed my only saving grace being that I was as skinny as a stick), so I would go the other way.  For a number of years I dressed in cast off men's clothing from charity shops including a surprising number of cravats, sports jackets and pyjamas.  In the case of the pyjamas I used to sew up the flies and wear them around town with doc martens, a DJ jacket and a hat.  I also had large, Christopher Biggins style glasses, not as an affectation, but because I was blind without them and my parents wouldn't let me have contact lenses until I was seventeen. 

I looked like a cross between Marty Feldman and Su Pollard.  It was not a look guaranteed to bring young men flocking to my door.  Perhaps that's why my parents encouraged it.  I was hardly likely to fall victim to teenage pregnancy, although if the Clothes Show had ever come our way I would have been taken in hand by Geoff Banks no doubt.

When I got to University I gave up the menswear for the most part.  Instead I used to visit a decrepit old charity shop which dedicated their profits to cat rescue.  As you would expect, it was run by batty old ladies with giant moustaches who smelled of cats, Yardley Lavender and death.  Because of this, most people wouldn't go in, and everything in the shop cost about fifty pence.  It meant that I had a very large and eclectic wardrobe to which I added items at an alarming rate.  I chose things based on how I was feeling and whether I liked the material.  I never really bothered with issues like whether it fit or not, or indeed whether it was appropriate to turn up to lectures in a moth eaten ball gown with a lumberjack shirt on top.

Generally nobody cared what you wore as long as you did wear clothes.  Really, my clothes were very conservative compared to what a lot of people wore.  As I have explained before, it was a very odd university and they would let pretty much anyone in.  As a result, pretty much everyone did arrive at one time or another.  One guy used to dress in Prussian Army uniform.  Another bloke, who lived near me thought he was a Lancaster Bomber, and a chap who lived in the room below me didn't approve of the modern world at all.  He stopped being interested in anything after nineteen twenty.  He dressed in plus fours and a lot of tweed and still wrote with an ink pen.  His room looked like a museum.  He was nineteen.  Another bloke I knew would wear horns and green and gold dresses for special occasions, and someone else looked like Jesus.  It was all go.

One item in my wardrobe was a constant, and that was Doc Martens.  I pine for a good pair of Docs every now and again, it has to be said.  Jason hates them, so I have resisted the temptation, although I might take them up again when I get to be a pensioner.  They are rather heavy and your ankles get calluses where the lace holes rub, so I will probably have to get an orthopaedic pair so my ankles don't snap in two.

 I spent about ten years of my life wearing very little else in the line of shoe wear mainly because they are just so comfortable and practical.  I even wore a pair for my graduation.  It was the only thing that pleased me about the whole day actually.  My mortar board kept slipping over my eye (I had measured my head with a bit of string and a ruler, and surprisingly, got the measurements way out), the speeches were all in Welsh, and the honourary degree went to a man who wrote a very boring bit of the Maastricht Treaty.  It was a terrible day...

I used to have several pair of Docs.  I had my sturdy, all purpose black ones, and then I had my purple ones for best.  I also had some green ones at one time, which were also lovely.  In my third year they brought out some in red or green velvet.  We all coveted those, but none of us bought them, even at that tender age we realised they would have been completely trashed in less than a week.  You'd feel like a king for a day and then look like a dog's dinner for the rest of time.  Not a good balance.  My friend used to customise hers with beads and paint and stuff, but I wasn't very good at art and knew that if I ventured that way I would end up with something that looked like cat sick on the end of my toe, so I stuck to the unadorned variety.

So, having a horrible queasy feeling that I have told you all this before, again, and again, and we are now revolving on the horrible hamster wheel of time, we should move on.  I am also feeling that this is good limbering up for my old age when I will just continually repeat my stories of the war (despite never having been in one.  Looks like my ninety three viewings of 'The Longest Day' might come in handy after all) and tell everyone how old I am until they want to kill me.  I shall probably be single handedly responsible for the legalisation of euthanasia.

Did some baking with the kids this afternoon.  We raided Nigella Express for ideas and ended up making triple chocolate cookies, which I cooked a tad too long, and which are a little too crispy for my liking, but which we have forced down anyway.  We also made her no cook cheesecake, which she covered in cherries, but knowing my fear of fruit based desserts, you will be unsurprised to find that we substituted crumbled up Flakes for the cherries.

I knew the cheesecake was a hit when Andrea, who swapped a seat at the dinner table for a ride to the theatre, had two helpings.  This is a good sign.  Nigella we salute you...

Yesterday saw the last preview of Othello at the Donmar Warehouse and the Whingers - being "friends" of the Donmar Warehouse - were rewarded for their friendship by being seated once again in the side rows while luminaries such as former Home Secretary Kenneth Baker (Baron Baker of Dorking), Michael Billington, Mark Lawson and the Whingers' über stalker Baz Bamigboye were in the seats which faced the action, so presumably they got to see Othello's big speech and death (sorry - should have said earlier: plot spoilers in here).

Anyway, in case you have been on another planet for the last few months, did you see Phil there? And also, this new production of Othello stars Chiwetel Ejiofor (pronounced [/tʃuwɛtəl ɛdʒəfɔː/] apparently) and Ewan McGregor and - according to the hype - tickets have been changing hands for £1,200.

So you can imagine how grumpy Andrew was knowing that he had nigh on £5k (street value) of merchandise in his pocket which he was practically giving to Phil and guests Katy and Lady Skipper (face value of £20 plus a "handling fee" for Andrew's trouble and a "restoration fee" to go towards Phil's Botox programme).

Bizarrely, it emerged last night that this is the first time ever that the Whingers have been to see a William Shakespeare play together (despite Andrew's protestations Phil is insisting that Kiss Me Kate doesn't count) so it was with some trepidation (three hours 15 minutes' worth) that they took their bench.

For those who haven't studied the play, Othello is about soft furnishings and haberdashery. There is a lot of fuss about handkerchiefs - so much so that Phil had to be restrained from throwing his handy pack of Kleenex onto the stage to defuse one of the many handkerchief-related rows (although no-one actually seemed to have a cold; it was all very puzzling) and hasten things up so that there might be a chance of having a drink afterwards (Fat chance).

Director Michael Grandage and designer Christopher Oram have gone for a very Shakespearean take on the play. There are a lot of men standing up and shouting and there was an audible sigh of relief from Andrew when an Ottoman appeared and people were able to sit down.*

Indeed, up until that point it was all very gloomy - a very dark stage with echoing sound and puddles on the floor. It was all very atmospheric but Andrew was struggling to stay awake (it was very hot) until the furniture arrived at which point things perked up.

Indeed, there seemed to be an in-joke here as in the second half, Iago cried "Oh, for a chair to bear him easily hence... A chair! A chair!"

Indeed, the arc (or "locus") of Othello is characterised by a very clear trajectory towards bigger and more opulent furnishings with the climactic scenes featuring a very large bed and some highly impressive curtains.

Anyway, yes, very Shakespearean - codpieces, beards, more shouting and trousers that put Andrew in mind of Puss in Boots - perhaps a nod to the fact that this is the Donmar's Christmas production.

Performances? Well, all very creditable. Chiwetel Ejiofor was as usual charismatic, but bizarrely played the role as Darcus Howe, and Kelly Reilly (with a costume which contrived to provide her with a marvellously pneumatic bust) did a terrific Desdemona. Phil thought she was, for once, a tad bland, but thought her big scene with Emilia was very affecting. Well, what he could see of it through the crepuscular mist; he felt he was watching it through a layer of tweed.

The Whingers particularly loved Michelle Fairley (Emilia) who coped magnificently with all the fuss over handkerchiefs.

The crucial hankie started off as a nicely pressed piece of linen, but after changing hands several times (it's a plot thing) was a scrunched up mess. Andrew wouldn't be seen dead with that one like that in his breast pocket, Phil wanted to leap on stage with an iron. All sympathised with the wardrobe people.

Who else was in it? Oh, yes, Ewan McGregor (shorter than you imagine) seemed anxious not to allow his Star Wars Star Status to overshadow Othello and skulked around a lot in the shadows which Oram had thoughtfully provided (much to the chagrin of Andrew's contact lenses which complained all evening).

McGregor coped with the verse quite naturally. Iago a funny old role, really, as it's not clear quite (or, at least, is wasn't last night) why he's such a nasty piece of work (or what Emilia sees in him) and then at the end Shakespeare doesn't seem to know either because Iago just refuses to say another word about it. McGregor didn't come over as particularly menacing or evil or deranged or racist - just very busy somehow.

But he did sport one of the more impressive codpieces; was this some kind of in-joke?

There was an awful lot of jealousy last night (don't worry, the Whingers aren't exploring Shakespearean themes; they'd never stoop so low) mostly from acquaintances and friends who wondered how on earth the Whingers got hold of tickets. The audience (apart from said mobile) seemed unusually quiet and attentive, presumably because some of them paid stupid amounts of boodle on ebay for their tickets, just to be able to say they went. No signs of touts outside. Very disappointing.

Anyway, the Whingers are not qualified to comment on whether this is a good Othello or a bad one. Nevertheless it's one of the hottest tickets in town just behind The Spice Girls tour and an invite to one of Christopher Biggins' dinner parties. Let's hope Biggins has as impressive upholstery.

Footnote:

1. The highlight of the evening was a fabulous elderly fur-coated woman smoking a pipe outside the Donmar at the interval. Actually it seemed she was just getting it going for her husband, but it's given Andrew a wonderful idea for his "New Year Look".

2. There was also a character called Cassio (Tom Hiddleston) presumably named after the electronic keyboard. The Whingers have to admit Shakespeare was so ahead of his time and hope it starts a retro comeback for the brand.

*Yes, we stole this gag from Victoria Wood.

Taking on the important job of keeping the camp happy and not taking themselves too seriously, Biggins proved himself as a friend to all and a increasingly rugged man who is game for anything. I love him and I hope it revitalises his career, I want to see far more of him on my tellybox over the next year and on into the future!

Something else I enjoyed this year was the ITV2 presenting team of Mark Durden-Smith, Emma Griffiths and last year's jungle king Matt Willis. After last year's rather painful ITV2 show following the main Ant and Dec hosted festivities, it was refreshing to see these three presenters actually making us laugh and being entertaining.

So bravo ITV, I hope they're all back next year...

My favourite? She can be annoying, but Janice Dickinson can be so funny. She doesn't care what she says, and boy, was she surprised by the trials!

Mind you, she says that the people who think them up are sick, and I tend to agree. It's also good to see someone acting like most people would, and refusing to do some. I mean, come on.. it always amazes me that these people will stick their hands and heads into boxes of spiders, snakes, scorpions etc.. and as for eating live bugs, animal testicles etc... EEWWW!

Least favourite? Lynne Franks. There's just something about her I don't like! Mind you, as cute as he is, Marc is second at the moment.. does he really expect his girlfriend not to care that he's cozying up to Cerys every opportunity he can?!

I'm looking forward to seeing what Christopher Biggins brings to the camp!

ITV will be welcoming CHRISTOPHER BIGGINS into its jungle of love at 10pm... (I'm A Celebrity, for the uninitiated)

And then... oh then... fabulously surreal The Mighty Boosh begins its third series on BBC3!

HURRAH! And goodbye, I'm off to watch the tellybox.

The New Yorker discusses the rapidly hotting up Democratic candidacy race.

The world needs love. Perhaps not this kind of love though.

This girl is our new hero.

Denis Johnson has won the National Book Award for Fiction. The New York Times celebrates it.

Brian De Palma talks to The AV Club.

PopMatters celebrates one my favourite things to do; Swear.

Salon offers up its own selection of man candy goodness.

Paul Lester offers up his slow-jam choices for getting divorced.

Ouch. Amy Winehouse's latest gig didn't go so well...

Christopher Biggins or Right Said Fred are going into I'm A Celebrity... tonight! WOOOO!

OK! has interviewed Ashley Tisdale aka Sharpay Evans from the upcoming High School Musical 3 (FILMING IN FEBRUARY!!!!!!)

Finally, ere's Angelina Jolie's article for The Economist; A Year For Accountability.

Through my late teens to my late 20’s I had a beard, it varied in length and precision cuts were made into its basic shape, but essentially, Piqued, in addition to his long hair, was known casually as Jesus-Man. Then one day, just to see how my face looked without it, I shaved it off in bits until a fucking great Maris Piper with piss-hole eyes was staring back at me in utter horror.

Early last week I made the decision to grow it back properly, not just sport tuffs of chin weed or sideboard runs, no, a fucking beard, maybe work into it in a month or two but get it on first. It was looking great last night when after half a bottle of Claret I decided to tweak a rogue hair -half an hour later all I was left with were my fucking sideboards and extreme rage.

OCD you see, it’s just there for the moving furniture and stuff about until it’s in its optimum position, no, it works on the face too.

Tried doing some work on the second book last night and I’ve decided it’s like my second tattoo. The first book was pondered and mulled over for nearly 15 years before anything happened, where’s this one only germinated as an idea in the spring and already I’ve something to show for it. The second Tattoo is better too so I hope my simile retains its integrity.

As I was waking up this morning I heard more about the ongoing suggestion that taking the piss out of someone for their sexual orientation would be, as seen in the eyes of the law, as bad as calling a black person a nigger. The fuzzy logic which is leading towards such fucking nonsense must be along the lines of ‘well you can’t chose the colour of your skin anymore than one can chose ones sexual orientation’. Which is of course true. But the two things are a million poles apart.

What the fuck is going on here? Has everyone had a sense of humour failure? If I go up to a black man and call him a nigger then I get what I deserve, similarly if I approach a homosexual and call him a faggot. But what if I make comments that imply a person is gay by saying he’s ‘good with colours’ a ‘puddle jumper’ ‘doesn’t follow Rugby’ etc? New legislation would make quips such as that an offence, therefore if a gay man calls me ‘darling’ (and they do, gays) surely I could do him for discrimination as he’s mocking my heterosexuality? There is a big difference between pulling someone’s leg over stereotypes (everyone is a fucking stereotype to someone) and another to be a hateful cunt.

Christ, when you got Christopher Biggins on Radio 4, whose gayer than Marc Almond crocheting a tea cosy in Madam Jo Jo’s, squealing out against the proposed law calling it draconian and fundamentally preposterous you suddenly realise that it’s a lot more dangerous than it initially sounds, think about it.

Oh, Friday night I get a text from my brother, as he was leaving work he bumped into a chap, instead of saying ‘sorry buddy’ or ‘sorry dude’, it came out as ‘sorry daddy’… Christ. The fucking shame…

This is a lovely little ditty, do turn it up. Many thanks (hilarious introduction)

Many stars have fantastic websites unashamedly selling themselves, (and their merchandise) and who can blame them?

So in the interest of your needs, the Whingers have made it very easy for you:

Prolific Mark Wynter is a particular favourite. He's been in just about everything and sells autographed photos for £10, reduced to £7 if you buy one of his CD's too. This really is a fantastic site, take the phone off the hook and enjoy.

Elaine Paige's is, as expected, a very professional job, though the Whingers suspect she got someone else to "Write it down!".

Sue Pollard (left) describes herself as "crazy and zany" you'd never guess looking at her subdued MySpace site. She invites people to get in touch with her but adds ominously, "Please note I am no longer in touch with Ruth Madoc".

Christopher Biggins has seemingly bought his domain name but not got around to doing anything with it yet; the page enticingly states,"Coming soon for all your Christopher Biggins needs!", The Whingers can hardly wait as they have many Christopher Biggins needs. However, possibly, he is - like many other high profile figures - the victim of a cybersquatter.

Amongst the many joys of Bonnie Langford's site she offers signed photos from £6.50 to £12.50, but for die-hard Bonnie fans this season's must-have is surely a full length portrait for a massive £69.95 which probably works out at £2 per foot. Cheap really when you consider you're getting Bonnie mounted.

Ruthie Henshall apologises to her fans who booked tickets on the strength of her appearing in The Night of a Thousand Voices from which she pulled out. Lets hope it's not because she's "taking a break" so she can spend "quality time with Lily and Dolly". (Presumably these are her children not her cats - the Whingers really couldn't be bothered to go any further on this one).

Broadway diva Betty Buckley has a very stylish site with some interesting scribbles the Whingers are still trying to work out.

Speaking of divas, Lesley Garrett's is similarly stylish, how does she find the time when she couldn't manage eight shows a week in The Sound of Music? There's a whole selection of her reviews and strangely all of them are good. Of her role as the Mother Abbess she modestly quotes: "..the true star is Lesley Garrett". Strange that, the Whingers thought it was Connie Fisher.

Carol Channing's is particularly compulsive and you get a full musical accompaniment. The Whingers were impressed that her son was shortlisted for a Pulitzer Prize and delighted that she's found happiness again "with her childhood sweetheart after a separation of 70 years". WEW were also pleased to see she's still touring in America, Phil had to grab Andrew's legs to stop him rushing off to the airport. You could spend all day on this site, and the Whingers probably will.

Yes it's a wonderful world out there and the Whinger's will be bringing you more website delights in the very near future.