Editor-At-Large: Oh, goodie! Another old bloke on TV!

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The Independent Online

I bumped into Michael Winner the other day. He has lost so much weight he's starting to look like a little silver pixie. I offered him a KitKat, but he graciously declined as he's on a strict diet. I wonder how a restaurant critic copes with militant calorie counting. His new series started on Friday: brave people invite Britain's rudest man for dinner, and then they cry. But it was Winner who was reduced to tears last week, moved by one woman's story.

Prime-time telly is dominated by middle-aged and elderly men: Gregg Wallace, the talking turnip, still mouths off on Masterchef, repeating everything after John Torode, only inarticulately. The other day, Gregg opined that doing a weekly shop means that our cooking skills have suffered. Not mine, Gregg, but don't hold your breath waiting for an invite chez JSP. I'd rather risk serving Michael Winner. Meanwhile, Alan Titchmarsh reigns supreme at teatime – seguing from Jedward to Mumsnet via tips on controlling bindweed. David Cameron is expected on the show next week. The Tories have checked the ratings, and they're very good. But I don't expect Dave will discuss eliminating slugs.

We need more athletes like Amy

The weather has been horrible – a perfect excuse to ogle some fit men and women at the winter Olympics, while lying on the sofa. Thank goodness for our gold medallist Amy Williams – attractive, articulate and suitably humble. As for the rest of our team, more have finished in the last five of their events than in the first five. Sports journalists have pointed out that some of our athletes were bizarre choices. Thirty-five-year-old snow boarder Lesley McKenna (not ranked in the world's top 50) finished 17 out of 24 in 2002, second to last in 2006, and this time she finished last. Why spend £6.5m sponsoring athletes in 33 sports? We should focus on the stuff we're good at, and give more juniors a chance?

You can't get the staff

Spent a night in a brand new high-rise hotel in the centre of Cardiff last week. The mini-bar in my room was empty, but a card listed the room service menu and a range of different wines on offer. I pressed a button on the phone marked One Stop Service. When I requested a small glass of Chilean Sauvignon Blanc, a female voice barked, "Today we only do red or white", refusing to provide any explanation. A lukewarm glass of mystery liquid eventually appeared. In the morning, my breakfast was 10 minutes late, and the cleaner cleverly parked the cleaning trolley and the vacuum cleaner right outside my door, to ensure maximum disturbance. The trouble is, most of the people working in these places have never stayed in a hotel.

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