Good afternoon.
Windsor is one our most beautiful towns - that glorious expanse of parkland which is home to so many games of cricket in the summer and rugby in the winter; the silver green ribbon of the Thames, bringing high thoughts down river from Oxford and ferrying a sense of history to Runnymede and the RAF monument, and out to sea. And the delightful cobbled street winding up, past and around the ancient castle and favourite home of our Monarch. That it shares a postcode with Slough, which even the gentle Betjamin thought might benefit from a little Teutonic bombing, is a cause of disquiet to many of the townsfolk. Not sure what She thinks but Ronke may ask. If she does, it may be knowledge for you but the Tower for her.
Which would be a bad end to the week.
Being a Gooner, experiencing a death in the family, being promised your personal pension problem would be sorted out by Peter Hain - next week, and finding your lottery numbers had come up but your partner had forgotten to buy your ticket. That's a really bad week.
A glass of scotch, albeit for medicinal purposes, at 10am; being endorsed by the Prime Minister and the Leader of the House of Commons; no serious delays on the Northern Line and a global campaign launched to protect endangered salamanders.
That, for Ken Livingstone, should have been a good week.
We attempt, therefore, to explain tonight why he says it has been the worst week in his life. And we've news that should certainly cheer him as it should getting on for half of you, too. Glen does his Ken Dodd thing with his political tickle-stick.
Tickled almost to death are the brave boys of Havant and Waterlooville. I know: a south coast town in Hampshire coupled with a small community named to celebrate one of our finer moments of Anglo-French history and also in Hampshire, But many of the line-up of this until recently little known soccer team hail from The Smoke. And because they are poised for glory or heroic defeat we have embarrassed them. Bring on the scousers of the Kop, we cry: death or glory! Marcus The Gooner is our man on the A3, southbound.
West-bound from the capitol, an army of Walter Mittys, a brigade of self-dillusionists, wending their way to a Terminal that doesn't even open til March. But they do it with a purpose which will advantage most of us, one day. Mike Pearse is your trolley-dolly.
Far greater than a mere dolly is the magnificent talent that is Mary J Blige. Jagger is a huge fan so that's good enough for me. A story of musical genius and personal triumph over dark adversity: on all counts, a must, with the delicious Lucy in command.
In command and wielding his critical cut-throat is the close-cropped James King. Will he savage Sweeney Todd and take a barbers blade to The Savages? Paint your faces and don a big white apron at 6: it could get messy.
Any spillage, and we can mop it up with London's papers having first shared with you the headlines and send you off with that warm glow of contentment that only Chrissie can dispense.
I cannot bring myself to comment at any length on What Not To Miss as I have, like the Germans in the Battle of the Bulge , been outflanked - like the Allies at Dunkirk, been left high and dry - like Harold at the Battle of Hastings, taken a direct hit in the eye: "she" merely confirmed, via the Director, that "she" would prepare and present this Holy Grail of broadcast information. Think of me as Napoleon - not on St Helena, for there is no escape: I have been sentenced to my broadcasting Elba.
See how I manage to raise my spirits, or not, at 6.
Alastair and the one who must now be known as Salma the Serpent.
