Peter Rhodes: Blame John McEnroe

DON'T you love those morning moments when you switch on the radio and hear some totally disconnected sound-bite? I tuned in yesterday to catch a debate on Marks & Spencer where someone was "getting his teeth into the women's wear issue."

ACCORDING to one critic, the real star of War and Peace (BBC1) is St Petersburg. Who can argue with that? Radiant in sunshine or bejewelled in snow and ice, the Russian city which likes to call itself "the Venice of the North" is exquisite in the TV scenes. But there is another side to it. I visited the city in the days when it was still known as Leningrad. The spring thaw had set in and the place was grubby, dark and depressing. The palaces were grimy and glum. Huge, traffic-stained slabs of grey ice and slush were being broken up by "volunteer committees" of lumpen Soviet grannies armed with iron bars. Turning a corner in Nevsky Prospekt, I stepped into a wind straight out of Siberia which cut like a knife through five layers of clothes. Anyone caught jay-walking was publicly berated by plain-clothes cops. One of our party who unwisely lit a cigarette at the Circus on Ice was whacked on the head by a little old lady who appeared from nowhere armed with a rubber truncheon. It was grim up north, comrades. Prince Bolkonsky would not have recognised the place.

TUPPENCE Middleton stars in both Dickensian and War and Peace (BBC1). Strange name to give a little girl, isn't it? We can only assume that Ms Middleton's parents did not mix in the sort of circles where "tuppence" meant not only two pennies but also a lady's intimate parts. When a working-class mum advised her daughter to "keep your hand on your tuppence," on a night out, it was partly a warning to safeguard her money, and partly a reminder to be wary of the boys.

A THOUGHT. If you name your daughter Tuppence what on earth might you call your son? No suggestions, thanks.

PETER Marsh, the pompous, perspiring, petulant salesman who threw such an entertaining hissy fit in this week's Come Dine With Me (C4), is a typical product of the post-McEnroe era.

UNTIL the 1980s little boys who lost at games learned to take it manfully, even if they woz robbed, because the umpire's decision was final. And then along came John McEnroe, demonstrating that big rich boys can throw a tantrum in public, just like a two-year-old. Since then, the number of blokes who refuse to behave like grown-ups has rocketed. You will see them screaming at other motorists, going berserk at football matches and behaving badly in shops. The other day in our local newsagents a man discovered his Sunday Times magazine was missing and was almost in tears. Marsh, 43, came last in Come Dine With Me. He snapped at the winner: "Take your money and get off my property!" He then lectured her on "grace and decorum" in a way that no man should ever speak to a woman. What a wally, what a plonker, what a bad example of the male of the species. And what a pity that for publicly throwing his toys out of his pram, he has won instant celebrity status. I would not be surprised to see Grumpy Peter switching on next Christmas's lights in some benighted borough.

INTRIGUINGLY, all the parties in the Come Dine spat say we should view the whole, unedited recording to see what really went on. Oh yes, please.