John Gibson: Hey Keith, what about my scarf?

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Beleaguered beyond belief? I’m not getting involved in the hysteria surrounding Cardinal Keith O’Brien. Some of the redtops are stuck on making whatever it is stick.

There’s a song that goes “I am what I am”. Maybe we should be humming it, rather than any of the age-old hits from the hymnary.

Done me no harm, the Cardinal. Tickets for his New Year receptions, his house parties at St Bennet’s, were scarcer than cup final briefs.

Last thing on Keith’s mind, as I write, will be my black hand-knitted scarf, of sentimental value. Mislaid it there on his coat-rack last month but his housekeeper Norah has assured me that it’s safe. Touched by the Lord.

To be Frank

Somebody who should have known better mentioned on TV Robbie Williams and Frank Sinatra in the same breath.

When Robbie grows up he’ll die of embarrassment. It’s like the adorable Adele. Nobody knocks the voice but she’s well aware her legs wouldn’t have won her an Oscar, we are agreed. Here again there’s a comparison, bizarre as it must seem. You’d never exhibit her pins next to Sophia Loren’s or Betty Grable’s. Oh, all right, then. Clarissa Dickson-Wright’s. Betty who?

You may still be wondering why Adele keeps her surname hush hush. It’s Adkins.

Naked truth

There’s no escaping the opinionated Helen Mirren. There is nothing like this Dame and today she’s hollering: “I can understand why women cannot bear looking in their bedroom mirror . . . Flesh sells. People don’t want to see pictures of churches. They want to see naked bodies.” Who’s arguing?

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