Although he could forgiveably be enraged that his rather unmistakable features have been confused with those of his on-screen buddy, Neil Morrissey, he shows no flicker of annoyance. But am I being overfanciful in detecting a menacing overtone in a dish which he claims was invented by his maternal grandmother? Its local name, Lou Bistec a L'Espaventada translates as "Terror-Stricken" Beefsteak.. "Never, never, I beg you," he pleads, "include boiled potato or any other boiled vegetable in your salad nicoise." Similarly, he notes that the ratatouille "commonly encountered outside the Comte de Nice bears no relation to the genuine traditional product". An appropriate term, for M Medecin must be one of few gaolbirds to have penned a cookbook. For all his moral pliability, Cuisine Nicoise reveals the ex-Mayor to be a bit of a stickler in matters gastronomic. Anything for a quiet night's sleep.The news that Michel Mouillot, Mayor of Cannes, was arrested last week on extortion charges reminded me of the fact that Jacques Medecin, his opposite number in Nice, was also charged with corruption and is currently doing a stretch of porridge.

Mrs W once even expressed an inexplicable taste for A Jolly Good Show, a record request programme presented by Dave Lee Travis, who annoyingly refers to his employer as the "BBC Wild Service", when dishing out free T-shirts and playing Whitesnake waxings for popsters in Kuala Lumpur.Yet it seems that the World Service is under threat, in particular its unrivalled current affairs output. Well, I, for one, would be willing to contribute a few bob to ensure that the BBC keeps on broadcasting to the world. Others lament the fact that The Merchant Navy Programme has sunk beneath the waves But, in general, listeners lap it up. Some voice resentment that "World Radio Club", with its warning of sun-spot activity affecting reception in the Gilbert and Ellice Islands, has been replaced by the more unbuttoned "Wavelength". One of my more hidebound cronies surprised me by revealing an interest in thrash metal music, prompted by John Peel's cacophonous broadcasts to the anglophone world.

Another pal, who customarily boasts of his scientific illiteracy, spouted knowledgably about the CERN particle accelerator, after hearing about it on Science in Action.The fraternity of night owls in thrall to the outpourings of Bush House are not entirely uncritical. Previous partners have complimented me on my tabby-like purrs.) The odd thing is that a surprising number of my friends are also addicted to the World Service as a form of in-sleep entertainment, wafting in and out of "Jazz for the Asking" or "Folk Routes" in between dreams. This is used as a kind of aural in-fill while Radio 4 is off the air between 1am and 5.50am.Mrs W claims that she was forced into this peculiar listening habit by my stentorian snores (Complete nonsense, of course. "Zoroastrianism", she might blurt out, perhaps followed by "Semolina" and, after a while, something like "Torquemada". No, you need not be concerned that the old girl has been sniffing the Snopake. She is merely contributing a few answers to "Brain of Britain", which enters her cranial passages via an ear-piece. Repeats of the radio quiz, so eloquently hosted by Robert Robinson, regularly crop up in the English language broadcasts of the BBC World Service.

Les Filles de Paula could find a convenient off-the-shelf solution to their mother's idiocy in the names of four other sisters - Jessica, Nancy, Deborah and Diana might fit the bill. Come to think of it, the bizarre menage of "Farve" and "Marve" Mitford bears more than a passing resemblance to the unorthodox parenting provided by Bob and Paula and Michael.Once in a while, round about 3.30am, the nocturnal quiescence of Weasel Villas is broken by a series of cryptic announcements by Mrs W. Tonibell Tangerine Tendinitis might be one example.How the sob sisters and agony aunts of Fleet Street frothed and foamed. However, they seem to forget that the spawn of our asinine rockocracy are under no obligation to endure their ghastly monikers. Zowie Bowie now prefers to be known as Joe, while Keith Richards' daughter Dandelion has adopted the irreproachably untrendy name of Angela (she has a riding stable in Kent). Well, we long-distance swimmers have to keep our strength up - but my landlubberish spouse appeared singularly reluctant to acknowledge the fact.Paula Yates, the peroxide harpy who devotes herself to the twin goals of publicity and procreation, garnered a vast acreage of newsprint as a result of the deeply daft name bestowed on the latest addition to her brood. I don't have the space to give the full, rambling nomenclature of her four (at least, that's the tally at time of writing) daughters But you know the kind of thing.