Q. So, how did you get started in writing?

A. My Dad was passionate about both reading and writing. My Dad was writing and trying to get published while I was growing up. I was working at Thames Television on The Bill as a production assistant. I went and enquired as to what I would need to do to be able to become a producer and the answer I received was “you need to write”. It wasn’t instant success as my first book was never published. I wrote a children’s book that went horribly wrong when it came to being published but was a fantastic learning experience: it was all part of the process of becoming a writer. Sometimes I feel that my best writing almost happens in spite of me rather than because of me. Eventually an agent asked if I would like to meet: so I went and bought myself a hat. I met the agent and then – I took my hat off – and started to write. I usually start with an idea of what the story is going to be and see where it takes me: I like the characters to tell me where they would like to go. I realise I speak about them as if they have their own life which comes across a bit odd.

Q. So what does Susan Lewis like to read?

A. Jodi Picoult, Susan Harwich. I’ll happily purchase a book by what I’ve read in the blurb. My thoughts about the kindle is that you don’t get that same experience: you can’t see a cover or who the author is so I have been known to read something and not know who it is I’ve been reading!  I’ve taken inspiration from the Poisonwood Bible and Sweet Francais. The latter was actually the inspiration for my novel The French Affair.

Q. So how did your family react to your memoirs?

A.  Well, the two main characters – my Mum and Dad- had already passed by then but my brother has chosen not read it at all. I think he would really feel the loss at the end of Just One More Day.

Q. In the second of your memoirs you have written from the male perspective – how hard was this for you?

A. I was fortunate that I got to know my Dad for a lot longer. As Dad wrote so much, an awful lot of what is in the book he really wrote himself: I just adapted it to fit into my writing. Dad did his best to keep us all together at a time when men would have fielded children out to aunts and grandparents. Writing from his perspective made me relive everything that I had put my dad through after Mum died: He really didn’t know what to do with such a hellish teenage girl. In fact, when I asked Steph to read it I actually said “I hope you still like me after reading it”. I am now a supporter of Winston’s Wish as they help support in times of child bereavement: who knows how things would have turned out if they had been around when I lost Mum.

When a member of the audience introduces themselves as a member of Sevenoaks writing group Susan very affably offers to “come along to your writers group sometime, for a chat, if you would like?” She then goes on to display how down to earth she is by saying that as she had gotten older she doesn’t hold ideas and details in her head like she used to. She tells us how she ran a competition on Face book for the winner to get their name used as a character’s name in one of her texts. Susan tells us how she had completely forgotten about this until the winner contacted her: there had been a vital component of the novel missing until this woman got in touch and then her character led the novel along. Susan explains how writing, for her, is much like being a sort of medium as she is taken over by the characters. When Susan wrote in her mother’s “voice” she felt as though her mother had taken hold of her fingers and had written those parts herself.

Steph then gave Susan a much earned break by announcing the start of the raffle and auction. There were some truly outstanding prizes on offer including a Jimmy Choo handbag donated by the author herself, a Chamilia bracelet with a B.C.C charm, a basket of goodies from Maisy K, A photo shoot with Catherine Hill Photography, a set of GHD straighteners and a voucher for a cut and blow dry with Matthew Cross, a one hour full body massage in the comfort of the winner’s own home, a mini car donated by Mini, a Pink Pandora Bracelet and an Amber Necklace. Overall this event raised approximately £3000 for Breast Cancer Care: a hugely successful event – congratulations to all involved!

Susan’s 28th novel No Child of Mine will be released on July 5th.

Well this entry is a special one as I have a business man who is affiliated with Maidstone United F.C!  Come on you Stones!!!

His name, Terry Casey, 61 years of age from Maidstone.

Terry is currently a company director but most of his time is consumed with his extensive work for a charity he operates in Ethiopia.  So good to hear of a Kent resident giving something good to the world. When not involved in his charity work, Terry is heavily involved in with the current construction of the new Maidstone United stadium in Maidstone.  Finally the Stones' are coming home and their is a lot of buzz from the people of Kent to see their local team return where they belong after spells in Ashford and Sittingbourne.

Terry does not have much spare time aside from that so understandably he could not comment further on my 'what do you do in your spare time' question.

An interesting fact that I have found out about Kent is that Leeds Castle is sometimes referred to as Ladies’ Castle. The reason being because many Queens of England have lived there Eleanor of Castile Catherine of Aragon, Henry VIII's first wife and even his daughter Elizabeth all have lived in the castle.  Did you know that?  Well you do now!

Terry does not eat out in Kent very much but instead prefers to eat out in London.  If you want a good place to eat in the capital, I personally recommend you try the Texas Embassy Cantina near Trafalgar Square.  This place does awesome Mexican food and superb strawberry margaritas.

When asked to supply me with a story that summed him up, Terry responded "My character should be summed up by others, not by me."  This is one of the most intriguing answers I have ever received and Terry is right.  Others should decide on our characters, it is not for us to decide what we think we are.

Terry is closely associated with his Irish roots as opposed to his Kentish background and I respect that he could be honest and say that to me.  It all to easy for people to just make up a sentence for me to publish about Kent but if they are truly more associated with other places than its better to be honest about it.

And now for my random question, If you could take on the life of any person, past or present, who would it be and why?  Terry again gave me another interesting answer.

"I am very happy with myself"

A very good answer, if you are not happy with yourself than you wouldn't be happy being anyone else.

A big thank you to Terry and my very best luck to him and the Maidstone United team for the final stages of the stadium development.  I can't wait to see them in action at home!

Keeps those eyes peeled for more interviews, you never know it could be you next!

If you live in Kent, let's talk!

If you would like to appear on my blog, all I ask is that you live in Kent and that you are willing to talk to me for 10 - 15 minutes about yourself.

If you think you'd like to give it a try, drop me an email on millendauthor@gmail.com and we will see what we can do!

11am Saturday mornings. The doorbell of doom rings on our miniscule TV and I scream in the kitchen (doing last nights washing up) nooooooooooooooooooo. 

A portly figures voice I hear cutting the air in the front room like the circular saw through Paul Daniel‘s index finger. 

I try to run for cover, but our bijou 2 bed has no hiding place for me to gibber like an idiot. “ITS JUSTINS HOUSE, THE PLACE YOU WANT TO PLAY”. Blood streaming from my ears with the cacophony of sound. I find solace in the toilet, whilst the god awful song draws on before this egomaniac of a man takes centre stage with his robot friend, a scary C3-PO crossed with the tin man from the wizard of oz.

The show is a cross between a Brian Rix Whitehall farce and panto and sesame street. (little monster looks like Oscar the grouch). They flitter the screen so campily. Is flaunting their sexuality, age appropriate for kids of 4 to 7? Er….no.

Everything in it is JUSTIN’S. he has his own fridge, his own snooze paper, his own butler and his own lake. Probably has his own bunker, tank, rocket launcher and private army, aircraft carrier. Probably his own PLANET!

And the shrieks of children’s laughter fills the air, my son super-glued to the LCD of doom. Whilst this TV Evangelist of pure evil lets his ego reign sheer terror on our 19” screen.

That’s it, he’s hooked. The Justin Fletcher axis of evil has ensnared another convert.

This man incriminates our daily lives. He voices loads of characters. He dominates the cbeebies channel. He has his own production company and a lot of his shows are on cbeebies. He dominates it so much that it wouldn’t surprise me if he serves your burgers at the golden arches or a latte at the fashionable coffee house. Heck he was according to wikepedia entertaining the kids at the Bestival festival. I don’t call it entertaining, I call it CONDITIONING.

Joking aside. I find it scary that this odious little man with his piggy eyes and his unkempt hair is popular at all. 

Those who wanted him to have some sort of letters after his name need to seek professional help.

The only letters I would put after his name is I.D.I.O.T.

Look at the facts. Each show he does as himself of that buffoonery called gigglebiz is a vehicle for his own hype. Each show he beams at the screen like some narcissist. He is not a humble man. He is patronising. I can imagine him berating those poor disabled people in Something special if they even look at the camera the wrong way. They are the stars of the show, they are the entertaining ones. Its supposed to be promoting awareness but instead its promoting this egregious excuse for “entertainment” He thinks “he’s” something special. He’s the star of the show. “Bow at my greatness”………I don’t thinks so.

Are we paying our licence fees so this man can dominate our screens. Is cbeebies the Justin Fletcher show? He has become bigger than the channel. The other presenters are mostly forgotten about especially the “no charisma - what were the bosses thinking?” Kerry and Alex. 

Kerry flaunts around the screen like she loves herself like a ballerina preening herself in a large mirror. Alex, if he got any more laid back - he would be asleep. Katie is great, enjoys her job but her singing could put caterwauling cats as world class harmonious barbershop singers. Sid and Andy? Well Sid, when he talks is just plain annoying and Andy, he’s ok. Best presenters were Chris Jarvis and Pui-fang lee. Shame they are only on that totally pointless Show me Show me. 

The best thing on Cbeebies is Mr maker. He is pure entertainment and literally looks like has genuinely enjoying himself.

Is this how kids TV is defined by Justin and the BBC machine? The Night Garden, Waybaloo and Abney and Teal were obviously conceived in a field of the devouring of psychedelic fungi and copious amounts of alcohol (I’m teetotal - I don’t advocate that sort of practice. 

My final point is this. If a man has his own production company, most of his shows are on one channel. He’s on everything you can throw a stick back (and it fetches it back to you). Other shows and talent are taken away. It is like he’s taking over the BBC. He’s already taken over the channel. The way his cash generating empire is going he could be the director general of the beeb or even have a behemoth of a Murdoch empire. 

If that happens, be VERY afraid. I don’t hate the man, my revulsion is beyond that.

I hear that bell of doom again…….help……….me……..

CELEBRITIES. Look, look, look, Kim Kardashian is pouring her curves into a dress.

Look, look, look, Kelly Brook is pouring her curves into a dress.

Look, look, look someone else better than you is having a better life than you. Mark Wright is eating a sandwich in red chinos. You’re rubbish and don’t have enough money for chinos. Kill yourself.

Celebrity culture is a massive business and a massive pain up the backside pipe. It takes the inane, makes it acceptable and makes you depressed. Natasha Giggs is wearing geek-chic glasses.

There's magazines in their hundreds, solely devoted to what they're doing, what they're wearing, what they're eating. Who they're having sex with, who they're not having sex with, whether they push their cuticles down.

Lindsay Lohan looks older than 25 with her pale skin. But she’s probably having more sex than you and her cuticles are perfect. Shut up podgy fingers, it’s true.

One of those pushing celebrities into every conceivable orifice of the nation's consciousness, like some disgusting sandwich paste, is Max Clifford.

That well-known celebrity-loving, grey-haired bloke who takes up the cause of those in need of a career boost. Frankie Sanford is wearing a patterned scarf. Buy one you idiot, you look drab and dull and will never find a husband.

So it was with much shock that when Mr Clifford, who looks a bit like a badger with a sun tan, appeared before the Leveson inquiry into press standards on Thursday, he told the committee that it was unhealthy that celebrities have such an influence over young people. Natalie Cassidy has had a haircut. She’s a great mum. You’re terrible and your hair looks drab.

Anyway, it's sad, he said, because so many celebrities are famous when they clearly have "no talent at all," adding that celebrity culture is "much to do about very little".

Max’s clients included:

Stacey Solomon: Fast-talking, incomprehensible girl from Essex who wants you to buy frozen chicken from Iceland in case your family comes round and wants some chicken for dinner. Let’s have a party, I’ve got mini quiches.

Lauren Goodger: Sometimes fat, sometimes thin. A girl from Essex whose main skill is being mundane and sometimes fat and sometimes thin. Talking about being fat or thin openly and honestly in magazines and on chat shows.

Kerry Katona: See Lauren Goodger but add a public battle with drugs to the mix (add Stacey Solomon to Kerry when *she* was the mum who went to Iceland). Numerous reality shows where she talks about battling drugs, her weight, her depression. Blah, blah, blaaaahhhhhhhh. Let's have a party, I've got tiny frozen cakes.

Rebecca Loos: Tossed off a pig and wore a bra for photographers. Sometimes cries about David Beckham in magazines and on television. Appears on "top 100" programmes saying words like: "Yeah, I mean 2011, who can forget it? It was like, a year."

Imogen Thomas: Was on Big Brother, got her jugs out for the boys, had an affair with Ryan Giggs and is now pictured frequently doing some kind of fitness thing or not wearing clothes. Sometimes she talks about her fears of going bald through stress.

So what have we learnt?

Tossing off a pig, having an affair, giving birth, being fat, doing drugs, being thin, smiling at mini quiches and selling frozen chicken is the future of popular culture. Anyone with an ounce of talent can go swivel, while those who can't even solve Iggle Piggle's "10-piece puzzle conundrum" take over the world.

Their every waking action, reaction and stupid comments and lives are beamed into our eyeballs, slowly melting our brains into a mush that looks like a pile of peas covered in the contents of a dog foul bin.

Now go and sit in a chair and think about what you've done.

I’ve just read a blog by a man who won the Orwell Prize for political blogging and has now written a review of this year’s Doctor Who.

The Daily Telegraph’s Graeme Archer said the only person who enjoyed the Christmas Day episode was Labour’s bloody “women are cool” deputy leader Harriet Harman, as the story was pro-Labour in its plotting – indeed it was “politically predictable”.

He was also extremely worried that little boys watching it might have got the message: “men are weak and women are strong”.

This could lead to some kind of weird reverse timey-wimey malfunction where women have jobs or are managers or have careers. Bloody women.

Or, more worryingly, those boys might grow up and not get jobs or be managers or have careers, because of a terrible inferiority complex brought about by Doctor Who needing the help of a bloody woman to save the world.

Yes, Mr Archer says we have a culture that “bends over backwards to transmit a message about the supposed inadequacy of men”.

He goes on to say: “When one of the most-watched children's television characters becomes a cipher for Harmanism, then I object.”

What a load of old cock and balls and cock. (Just because men’s unmentionables are slang for ‘rubbish’, it doesn’t mean we’re rubbish, kids. Men are cool.).

Anyway, Harriet Harman says really boring things like “Listen plebby peasant, the unilateral embolism of this socio-economic field of working group, climate change, quango-misdiagnosis, is extremely worrying in a period of economic uncertainty when everyone up and down the country is sitting around a table carrying out discussions that are ongoing and binge drinking.”

No one wants to listen to that. Especially men. Yawn. We’re down the pub and watching football and making executive decisions about stuff.

The Doctor (a man) says exciting things like “Quick, there’s a rip in the space-time vortex and the Daleks, Cybermen, Zygons, The Master and the Quarks, are all coming through and will destroy the entire world and universe. There’s not only going to be an explosion but an implosion all at the same time. Lucky I’ve got my Sonic Screwdriver.”

And then a spaceship explodes or something.

Call me politically naïve, but when a mum loses her two kids on an alien planet that they’ve travelled to through a Christmas present under a magic spinning tree, in a mansion that dispenses lemonade through a tap, and she's faced with acid rain killing her and her family before she wears a special crown given to her by a living tree, that looks like a king, that then ciphers the spirits of trees - that are alive and can talk - into her head so they won’t die... before she then pilots a spaceship through the time vortex to get back home where, fortunately, her husband, who had died over the English Channel a few weeks’ beforehand, spots the spaceship and follows it, landing safely, and more importantly alive, back on Earth – well, I just don’t get how that’s very Labour Party.

The only part of Doctor Who that resembles the Labour Party is that Cybermen have a speaking voice extremely similar to Ed Miliband.

And anyway, women have been portrayed as inadequate for decades. Doctor Who shows this more than anything – in the 1960s his female friends were called “assistants”, they didn’t understand words or colours, they were told to make coffee for the chaps and often fell over, spraining their ankles, and then crying about it.

They couldn’t drive cars or write with a pen, and they never had husbands because they were so useless at everything. Yeah, some of them thought they were hip and cool and could do stuff like walking without the aid of linking arms with a man, but they weren’t, they couldn’t. They were women. Bloody women.

But I of course fear for little boys now who might think women are better than them. Don’t worry boys, men are cool. We’re the best. Go men!

Harriet Harman was once quoted as saying: “Would I go back in time? Not as a woman. All those unwanted pregnancies and women having to defer to men? No thanks.”

See boys? Even Harriet Harman (a bloody woman) wants to be a man. Go men!

Let’s re-brand everything to make things assuredly male though. Just in case.

Spice Girls can become Spice Persons;
Brown-eyed Girl needs to become “Brown-eyed Cleaner Where’s My Dinner?”;
Girl Guides needs to be “Not the Boy Scouts”;
And Secret Diary of a Call Girl needs to become “Secret Diary of a Woman Who’s Got the Right Idea, Yeah, That’s a Job, Now Where’s My Dinner?”

And if you see a woman out and about today, ask her why she isn’t at home. And does she have a husband? If she’s ugly or wears trousers she probably doesn’t. These ugly, trouser-wearing women need to be working the fields, getting potatoes for my dinner.

And if she’s good-looking, and wearing a skirt she’s probably got too much confidence. Probably thinks she’s funny and intelligent too. Can walk and use a pen. Stupid woman. Give her a slap and ask her whether she’s made my dinner.

Anyway, whatever political party you belong to, you’re rubbish and I hate you because I’ve always had a problem with figures in power. Like Hitler and men who were in the Bullingdon Club. I think it’s probably a working-class thing.

And Doctor Who was pretty drab and dull this year, so I imagine Harriet “I was Solicitor General” Harman enjoyed it.  

Craig Revel Horwood and Ann Widdecombe are certainties to be the panto hit of the year.

Not a soul in the audience of Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs at Dartford's Orchard Theatre last night would disagree.

After Craig's brutal judgements of Ann's exploits as a contestant on the Strictly Come Dancing last year, the pairing had already prompted sales of 25,000 tickets before a single "oh no it's not" had even been uttered.

As a result the run was extended by a week to Saturday, January 7, a triumph for panto-lovers everywhere as this is a show you should really take the time to see.

Without giving away any of the script, Ann's political quips and Craig's Strictly-themed banter was superb. Both were more than willing to send themselves up to the highest degree and the absence of a traditional dame and gunging was of no consequence.

Undoubtedly they are most unexpected panto duo of the year but that is a big part of their charm. It made me wonder which duos could inspire next year's pantomime line ups.

After a very strange morning of conversation in the What's On office, here is what we came up with:

--- Fatima Whitbread and Antony Cotton - their barneys over the cooking, tasks and just about everything on this year's I'm A Celebrity were legendary and made the show essential viewing. Plus I think Fatima would make a fearsome Abanazar in Aladdin.

--- Katie Waissel and Frankie Cocozza - they say the success of a pantomime is judged by the loudness of the boos and these two could certainly break some records in that department.

--- Smokey Robinson and Richard Bacon - The partnership's gags might dry up after the first minute but they could make for some very interesting promotional posters.

--- Alex Reid and Paddy Doherty - one would love dressing in his ugly sister's outfit, the other would punch the other one's lights out... but who is who?

--- Pippa Middleton and "Monkey" - Not my choice but one of my esteemed What's On colleagues insists the combination of the perfect rear and an irritating puppet has a certain poetry to it that could inspire comedy genius. Riiiigghhhtt...

--- Ant and Dec - come on.... they would be awesome.

--- Harry Derbidge from TOWIE and Polar Bear from Frozen Planet - come on Polar Bear, do us all a favour.

****

Little Mix won the X Factor, saving us from the blandness of Marcus sneaking to victory.

It would have been a bit rubbish if someone had won the show because they fitted the bill for the floating mum and nan voters.

However, I'm not blown away by the choice of song for Little Mix's inevitable Christmas No1 single. Don't get me wrong, I'm a big fan of Damien Rice's Cannonball but I groaned at the girl group's generic pop treatment of such a tender song.

Had my preferred choice of X Factor victor, Kitty Brucknell, not been voted off weeks ago I think we would have had a much more authentic treatment of the track. But people don't vote for talent on X Factor. They vote for sweet, inoffensive, pretty faces and banish anyone with even a hint of edge to turning on Christmas lights at Bluewater.

Something which Kitty did a very good job of last month, ACTUALLY!

I’m either jealous or a realist but “My Week with Marilyn” seems somewhat far-fetched.

The new film, all about Marilyn’s visit to England to film The Prince and the Showgirl, looks at the relationship between her and third assistant director Colin Clark.

Colin’s memoirs, which became a book, claimed that he kissed her full on the lips after a swim in the Thames, and Marilyn’s exclamation of “Four hours!? Aren’t we going to make love? Will that give us enough time?” at Colin’s suggestion of going to sleep for four hours when he popped into her bedroom one night after she locked herself in demanding to see her Colin.

Instead of making love for hours they just spooned for four hours, by the way.

Anyway, this new film, also starring Kenneth Branagh, Emma Watson and Judi Dench, follows Colin on his journey from rich man, looking to break the shackles of privilege, and follow his dreams to working in films.

In between the reality of shooting a picture at Pinewood, Colin and Marilyn get up to the aforementioned spooning, skinny-dipping in the Thames and being surprised by her appearance in the back of a car under a blanket, because even the policeman guarding her thought there's was a love made in Heaven.

Then there was the kissing on the lips, running through fields, laughing, and getting an exclusive tour around Windsor Castle because his uncle-or-something happened to work there.

But how much of this film is true? Can I REALLY believe Colin, younger brother of the well-known MP Alan Clark, and everything he says? Is it fiction or fact? Like aliens and ghosts and Vernon Kay.

I’m working on my own memoirs at the moment actually, about the time I saw Emma Watson in a picture in a magazine and we started going out.

We spent nine magical days together, running through fields and laughing, before she had to go and shoot a new film.

It all began so easily.

“Thom,” Emma’s voice whispered, “will you stay with me tonight, I am so sad and afraid.”
“Of course,” I said, strongly, breaking an iron bar with my muscles, “I’ll be here for you forever and always and forever.”

The next day, as I was buying a sandwich and Fruit Shoot, a car pulled up with a policeman driving it.
“Get in,” he barked like a dog angry at being on a lead, and I got in.
“Surprise!” exclaimed Emma Watson, hiding underneath a blanket. And I was.
“Can you take me to Asda? I’ve always wanted to see the George selection of clothing,” said Emma Watson, looking deeply into my eyes with wonder and excitement.
“Of course I can,” I smiled, wistfully, drinking my Fruit Shoot in one gulp, “my mum-or-something works there, and she can exclusively get us 10% off.”

I was warned off Emma Watson by former co-star Daniel Radcliffe who said she might break my heart. But I was young and impulsive and I refused to believe him.
We fought in mud and as I twisted his arm behind his back, I told him he was “no Rupert Grint”.
Then he was all like “OK, OK, please let me go Thom.” And I did.

Soon though, Emma Watson had locked herself in her room in her hotel, refusing to come out unless I arrived. I arrived and she let me in.

I suggested we sleep but she became furious and began to rip the shower curtain down in a fit of rage. I suggested we sleep as it was 3am and we needed to be up for 7am because breakfast was served between 7am and 8am and I didn’t want to miss it.

It had been fun while it lasted but I didn’t want to lose my job as a superhero. Nothing had happened, we’d just spooned for four hours and then I had egg on toast, but I felt desperately sorry for Emma Watson. She was trapped by her own fame and longed to be my wife.

Sadly, as protector of the world, I could not become romantically involved. We kissed sweetly one last time, on the lips I might add, and then I flew away to Pluto to restore my Vorgon energy supplies which let me fly.

TONIGHT BBC1 might air the worst show since Noel's HQ.

It's called “That's Britain!” and has an exclamation mark to emphasise the sometimes quirky ups and downs of modern Britain. (8pm if you want to go and eat some pins).

Apparently it's a cross between That's Life and... actually, no, it's not a cross, it is That's Life - but with Nick Knowles instead of Esther Rantzen. Oh, he is awfully handsome.

And it's going out LIVE which means anything can jolly well happen! What a riot.

Of course, it isn't just irrepressible Nick Knowles in charge, there's jovial Julia Bradbury, who you might have seen in a field for her work on Countryfile. Golly gosh she is wizard on agricultural issues.

And it gets bloody Blighty better and better.

Grainne Seoige, who worked on hot-bed of breakfast programming Daybreak, tackles junk mail in this first episode. Simply smashing.. HOW annoying is junkmail!? I bet Grainne agrees with me. And all of you at home. Bloody junkmail.

Then TV funnyman Shaun Williamson (that's right... Barry from EastEnders, haha) tries to bring back bus conductors. What a quirky country we live in.

Fellow TV funnyman Adrian Edmondson follows the journey made by luggage as it travels through the airport system. Brilliant. How DO they get bags from the plane to my hand? I ca-ca-ca-can’t wait to find out. Bet it’s funny.

And then “the team”, as we'll come to know them over the next four weeks, tries to find the worst pothole in the country. What a bother potholes have become. Ahhhhh Britain! Bet it’s well big that pothole.

And the show is interactive. Got a gripe? Let the team know about it. “Tell us what’s driving you mad” says the BBC, “we’ll be taking a look to see what annoys Britain the most LIVE in the studio.”

What annoys me are these warm-hearted, stolid programmes with boring and irreverent looks at dull subjects normally amply covered by the One Show. And if I wanted to know how Velcro works and how it can be utilised to save the whale, I'll Google it.

Anyway, in a bid to attract BBC producers and get a top exec job, here are some ideas for future shows which you can use:

TV babe Cat Deeley investigates how a frozen pie goes from inedible to edible after being in an oven for just 25 minutes. And is a pie really a pie without a pastry base?

Reggie Yates tries to bring back hanging and speaks to some Britons who are stubborn, stoical and indignant at the perceived injustice of the legal system. And should jurys be made to wear a green uniform?

The boys from One Direction take an irreverent look at art and culture and meet artist Jimmy McThimble who has created a piece in situ on top of a dead seagull in Margate. Taking on a performative and animated stance, the piece is diagramming the relationship between the economy and the ephemerality of site-specific sculptures. The boys eat ice cream and ask "how many flavours are there?"

TV presenter Christine Bleakley contemplates whether a sofa can present television better than her. Later she looks at sofa fabrics since 1754.

And TV funnyman Les Dennis tackles speed cameras and asks “should they be yellow?”

THE BBC's idea to save £700 million by spending £500,000 on consultants to advise on Delivering Quality First (DQF) - the broadcasters cost cutting programme - could lead to some sad-face, crying in a bucket, changes to their output.

Getting some sharp-suited consultants with Parker pens in is the only way a bloated mega-corporation can deal with identifying where to make the best cuts - after all, no one else could come up with inspired, original and profound ideas such as making people redundant and scrapping Homes Under the Hammer.

Of course, if I'd been invited in to come up with some radical proposals, a) I would have charged much more, b) come up with a better name, probably Cash in the Pragmatic, and c) I’d have merged BBC programmes together to make super-programmes. With the cash I make I’d have bought more suits and Parker pens and gone to ITV with a very definite view on Vernon Kay.

Anyway, Tonight’s the Night would merge with Newsnight to become Tonight’s the Newsnight in which John Barrowman wears a brightly-coloured suit with lights in the sleeves, and interviews leading political figures such as Ed Balls, before making their dreams come true by popping up in the Commons disguised as Jeremy Paxman in a hat and inviting them to sing on the Tonight’s the Newsnight stage.

Each night Barrowman sings a topical opener. Like tonight for instance, it would be about increased unemployment and would be to the tune of It’s Raining Men. Dancers would symbolise the misery of the prols as the Bank of England's governor Mervyn King tells teary-eyed, hard-working Britain that the economy could stagnate until the middle of next year. And there’d be glitter cannons.

To lighten the nation’s mood, A Question of Sport and Question Time would become A Question of Time, in which politicians and fat-mouthed minor celebrities like Richard Bacon or Vanessa Feltz answer one question. The audience of angry voters wearing jumpers and chinos sit there tutting and looking at their watches, waiting for the government to do something about life and unemployment and stuff.

BBC News 24 would be scrapped and linked with BBC News at One, BBC News at Six and BBC News at 10 to become BBC News at 246110. There would only be one presenter and that would be Huw Edwards. Each morning he would be filled with helium and pushed in the direction of news so he can do it live and on the scene. Which is what everyone watching the news wants to see. Otherwise it's boring.

Doctor Who could merge with Who Do You Think Your Are? to become Doctor Who Do You Think Your Are? in which the ageing Timelord goes back through his history, meeting his predecessors, and recalling how his fourth incarnation defeated the Daleks that one time. Richard Madeley would narrate because he’s not up to much these days and is cheap - unless Chris Evans is having another holiday and he's asked to fill-in on Radio 2.

Top Gear of the Pops could provide much needed "youth interest" by combining the latest cars with the latest fad in singers. I can imagine Justin Beiber in a Ford Cortina would go down well with the 10 to 12-year-old demographic that's so hard to cater for. Justin would then discuss the car in detail before launching into an argument with Jeremy Clarkson about prostitutes.

Springwatch and Crimewatch would join forces with Watchdog and have a programme that deals with villainous Springer Spaniels who commit antisocial acts in parks and then find it difficult to return a television to Currys, but only during the spring. Unless you add in Autumnwatch, then you can have two series each year.

Finally, BBC’s Children in Need would drop the child angle and just become BBC’s in Need. The seven hour charity fundraiser teleathon of wonder would see Terry Wogan host non-stop and include clips of BBC staff saying why they need the money.

Perhaps someone wants to cover an important issue in Birmingham or the drama department needs some extra cash to do another Jane Austen adaptation for Radio 4 and wants to hire Martin Jarvis to narrate.

Intermingled with the sadness would be fun though, people sleeping in baths filled with beans desperate to make enough cash so we can keep The One Show on the air and fulfill the contract renewal of Alex Jones.

Frankie "Cocksure" Cocozza has left the X-Factor. Hooray. Let’s have some coke. With lemon and ice.

Despite surviving that sing-off on Sunday, and having a few boos from jealous men who find it unbelievable women would want to sleep with a man who looks like a girl, he's now free from the rigours of the television schedules. And so are we.

I’ll never have to look at his skinny-jean-wrapped-legs, bouffant-Babyliss-big-haired-hair, mascara-wearing, smug-smiling, out-of-tune, wobbly-framed face again. Hooray. Let’s have some coke.

His reason for leaving, according to the X-Factor people, is that he broke one of the show's "golden rules". What this is they haven't actually said. Presumably he was trying to learn to sing or eating bunnies in the green room.

In a statement, bunny-biting Frankie winced in the harsh light of day and said: "I'd like to apologise to Gary Barlow, my fellow contestants and everyone who has voted for me, but, as of today, I will no longer be in the X-Factor.”

Up and down the land, unscrupulous women cursed their luck and shouted at the sky with raised fists, disheartened with the knowledge they wouldn’t be on the front of The Sun if they met up with him in Coco Moco’s Viva La Loca and Vodka club in Chelsea.
 
"My life during the show has gone out of control,” continued Frankie, attempting to frustrate a bailout deal giving the Greek government 130 billion Euros in a bid to improve the economic situation in Europe.

“My behaviour off stage has over-stepped the rules of the competition. I no longer deserve my place in the show, so I am therefore leaving.”

Rabbit feaster Frankie's leaving is probably the biggest shock since we found out Kelly Rowland can't put down anything she picks up or that Tulisa was born Jenny Millabong.

Frankie Cocozza. The man with seven girl's names on his bum. When life in his hometown of Brighton allowed him seven chances at love. But his bum, unlike his head, wasn't big enough for the increased rate of his alleged newest conquests which took column inch after column inch.

There was that girl off the tele, that brunette one from a club, that blonde with the flumpy McGumpys he'd spotted at Jackie Meller's House of Booze and that other one who was passing by to get some milk and found herself selling her story the next morning giving her the opportunity to buy lots of milk with the proceeds.

But being booted off, or quitting, or whatever happened, is probably the best thing for him. And us. Anyone who wins the X-Factor goes on to do nothing.

Matt Cardle, I know for a fact, just walks around parks with a pork pie hat on at a jaunty angle walking like a cockney geezer asking strangers if they've seen his knackwurst.

Those who lose (any of these TV talent things) tend to make a go of it. Look at Susan Boyle, Jedward, Olly Murs, JLS, One Direction, Cher Lloyd... Eoghan Quigg. All bigger than the winners of their respective series.

So if X-Factor has taught us anything this year, it's that winning means nothing, breaking the “golden rules” means you'll be famous and get lots of lovely girls, and probably a record deal and chance to appear on I’m a Celebrity, Get Me Out of Here. And eating rabbits is OK kids.