Popeye's Hat

We were invited to Sunday lunch a couple of months ago with some friends who live some distance away, so were further invited to stay the night. We rose on Monday morning, descended the stairs as the aroma of freshly brewed coffee wafted out from the kitchen. Breakfast was in preparation and our hosts advised us that as the morning was a chilly one, they had lit a fire in the lounge, also that they’d put the news on for me. Very nice too, lovely welcome. So it was rather ungracious of me to sour the mood by voicing my dislike of the female presenter of this breakfast news programme. What’s wrong with her? I was asked. “She’s false,” I said, “although in fairness, the only person I dislike more than her is that bloke.” Heads turned screenwards as the rather self-satisfied, shiny little man who reads out the football scores greased his way into shot. Ungracious? Yes, I’ll admit to that, uncalled for etc, but was my dislike a rational one? Yes, it was. It irritates me that during Royal Ascot, which is a five-star meeting, featuring the very best of horses and jockeys and top class races, that the focus on this TV show (BBC Breakfast) by this person (Chris Hollins) is getting himself done up in morning dress at 6AM to talk about what people will be wearing and whether the Queen’s going or not, and never mind some proper journalistic-style coverage of the racing.

But if we move into the realm of irrational dislikes, there are some queer ones about to be sure. My mother can’t bear Cary Grant - and therefore I have decided I am probably adopted, or if my ma can’t see the greatness in the best screen actor of all time I should like to be placed with a new family. She also spits fur balls at the sight of Gloria Hunniford, John Wayne, and the insurance ads featuring both the meerkats and the opera singer. I don’t like Jeremy Paxman either, she said. “I do,” I protested. Well, I knew you’d like him, she said, pointedly.

A colleague can’t bear Frank Sinatra as she says he looks too pleased with himself, but she adores Robbie Williams – whose smirk is of course off the scale and in inverse proportion to his talent. At least Frank had the chops.

I have never seen Friends. People used to say they were like Joey or, one of the other ones, and I had not a clue. Reason? I could never get past that weedy theme song. Now and again I thought I give it a go, but as soon as these guitar-toting do-gooders said they were going to be there for me I decided it was time I was going to be somewhere else and right sharpish. I don’t care for the local TV weatherman because he wears brown suits, but the rest are probably too numerous to mention. Easier to ask me who I do like.

Sandra throws things at Fiona Bruce, little old wine drinker Jilly Goolden and Countryfile’s Julia Bradbury. None of whom bother me. But when we sat down to watch Zoolander we glanced at each other after a bare few minutes and knew we had to re-think things. Reason? The spectacularly annoying Owen Wilson made his way onto the screen prompting a joint dash for the off-switch.

Mrs Bryer wins this one though. “Shall we watch The French Connection?” I asked. No, she replied, I don’t like it. “What do you mean you don’t like it? What’s not to like about The French Connection?” I don’t like Gene Hackman’s little pork-pie hat, she said. Can’t argue with that.