PUT IRONS IN IRONS?

“I knew Sebastian by sight long before I met him.That was unavoidable for,from his first week, he was the most conspicuous man of his year by reason of his beauty, which was arresting, and his eccentricities of behaviour, which seemed to know no bounds. My first sight of him was in the door of Germer's,and on that occasion, I was struck less by his looks and more by the fact he was carrying a large teddy-bear".

Oh lovely, lovely, lovely. Bring me champagne, strawberries and the finest chocolates in the house and take me back 30 years to the early, post-riots autumn of 1981 when I, a still slender youth, set my heart on Oxford’s dreaming spires and Brideshead Revisited ruled on ITV. The prose came from Evelyn Waugh via John Mortimer. The pitch perfect voice-over, steeped in regret and nostalgia, came from dearly beloved Jeremy Irons, already 33, but immaculate as an Oxford undergraduate. There were those who hated it from the start, deeming it to be smug, vacuous, upper-class tosh, Downton Abbey with popery and teddy bears. But even a one-off episode, a charity shop pick-up from a newspaper giveaway, still works a little magic. The recent cinema version, despite stout performances from Emma Thompson and others, was already doomed for oblivion before the cameras rolled.

Oh, what became of that youthful duo, strutting through the quads and struggling to stay out of each other’s pants in Italy? Anthony Andrews, despite a fair-to-middling West End, rep and TV career, is still best known for dipso Sebastian, although in real life it was a nasty bout of water intoxication that could have done for him. And Jeremy…..Well he has just turned 63. Having been both charmed and repelled by Catholicism and its impact on the Brideshead mob as young Ryder, Jeremy is currently El Papa himself, the legendarily corrupt Alexander VI, main man in The Borgias. It is, if truth be told, a singularly lazy, if cheerfully cynical turn, but possibly what Jeremy wants (and deserves?) at this time of life.

Lynn Barber once admitted to wanting to boil Irons in oil in the face of interview bolshiness and rank bad manners. Others have found his dalliance with the Countryside Alliance at best off-putting, suggesting he has always been a tad tweedy and weedy. I recall the discomfort of fellow studio guests on Radio Four when Jeremy inexplicably announced he had always wanted to break wind on air.  More recently, there were hearty suggestions from the aging actor that patting a lady’s bottom was a friendly gesture to be treated with good humour (and gratitude?)  by the recipient?  

This may all leave Jeremy on at least the outer fringes of supreme pratdom. But what of the work?

In Hollywood, Irons is best remembered for his Oscar-winning turn as insulin man Claus von Bulow in Reversal of Fortune, keeping a none-too-kindly eye on Glenn Close. Whisper it quietly, but this was mainly tinned ham. “Sunny had a sundae”, intoned von Bulow, a cartoon baddie of lugubrious charm and European wiles, although nothing like as sinister as Simon Gruber in Die Hard with a Vengeance. I have never got all the way through David Cronenberg’s Dead Ringers, where you get two Jeremies for the price of one, sparring gynaecologist twins, no less, but it is not for the faint-hearted.

 At the other end of the spectrum, our man was  righteously wet opposite de Niro in The Misssion, bringing the word of Christ to the forests of South America. Father Gabriel was mercifully dispatched by brutal colonial raiders. I had the pleasure of seeing him murdered in the flesh as Richard II at Stratford, but reserved the greatest exultation for his death bed departure in Bertolucci’s shamefully awful Stealing Beauty, having failed to cop off with Liv Tyler in Tuscany.  Heartless, but Jeremy in extremis tends to have that effect.

Jeremy mid-coitus is also not a pretty prospect. Who can forget the look of horror on is his face, or indeed his naked frame, in the David Hare on a very bad day Damage as son Rupert Graves goes over the banister, his last view on earth that of father pumping away at Juliette Binoche? No wonder Miranda Richardson gave him his marching orders.

But the Irons CV is impressive in its diversity: lecherous literatus Jerry, cuckolding Ben Kingsley in Pinter’s Betrayal; off in pursuit of Meryl Streep in The French Lieutenant’s Woman;  acting the rueful roué and aged musketeer in The Man with the Iron Mask; hitting the sword and sorcery trail in Eragon and (gulp) Dungeons and Dragons. Much of this (including  The Borgias ) is bill-paying hackwork (Jeremy has quite a few cars to maintain).   I certainly hope he got a decent cheque for the little-seen The Fourth Angel , Jeremy as an Economist journalist (no less), hunting down the Serbian terrorists who took out half his family, helped on his way by Timothy West, Forest Whitaker and Charlotte Rampling as MI6's most glamorous ex-agent.

But Mr Irons can still raise his game. He was  seriously good as Dudley Earl of Leicester opposite Helen Mirren in the excellent Queen Elizabeth I, which showed historical drama could be more than serial shagging, beheading and scenery mastication.

Oh to have seen him in his busking days, or as a posh Judas betraying David Essex in Godspell. But if you want to see the child inside the man, check out those YouTube Playaway clips from the 1970s. Who needs Lord Sebastian’s flights of fancy or the stately majesty of Castle Howard when you can act the fool with Brian Cant?

EVERYONE'S A WINNER

I am a bit disappointed not to get a last minute invitation to Sir Michael Winner’s  wedding. I was also dismayed that no public holiday was granted in celebration of the nuptials. It’s the first time up the aisle for the veteran film director and restaurateur, emerging pyjama clad from a string of high profile dalliances and having recovered from a very nasty medical experience.

One had always hoped Michael would pledge his troth to Jenny Seagrove. I once sighted them together at interval time, breathing the warm London air on Charing Cross Road, midway through Kenneth Branagh’s Much Ado About Nothing. I’m sure Jenny remains A Woman of Substance, but I will remember her best as the evil nanny, Camilla, in The Guardian (the film, not the newspaper), bent on infanticide in league with killing trees in William Friedkin’s worst ever cinematic offering.  The two parted, (not because of the evil  trees)  Jenny ending  up with theatre impresario and Everton overlord Bill Kenwright.  The new Mrs Winner is no blushing nymphette, but Geraldine Lynton-Edwards, a sprightly 71.

Winner’s adventures in restaurant land and advertising have been mildly diverting, but have latterly overshadowed his many onscreen triumphs, surely worthy of a BFI retrospective, ideally before he pops his clogs. Most Winnerphiles, while noting earlier classics like Some Like it Cool  (Winner does naturism – don’t go there), fall over themselves to pour praise on the Charles Bronson Death Wish franchise, awash with no excuses homicide, judicious revenge and the occasional gang-rape. Death Wish II comes with the added bonus of a killer Jimmy Page sound-track. Ground-breaking, fearless and ahead of the curve these mighty films all were, but latter Winner is equally rich and tasty, although the critics have never quite go it.  Parting Shots, featuring north-eastern rock star Chris Rea as terminally ill (but not really) muso going on killing spree, found little favour with Total Film: “This is film-making at its cheapest, at its nastiest, and its most self-indulgent. Ignore it – hopefully it’ll quickly go away”. Bullseye! brought Michael Caine together with Roger Moore in a jolly romp about conmen, aided and abetted by the always classy Patsy Kensit and a much maligned John Cleese, but was judged by one Winner-baiter (get Bronson on the case) as “an unsightly wart on the face of cinema”.

Pride of place for me will always go to Dirty Weekend, loosely adapted, or ‘Winnerised’ from Helen Zahavi’s cult novel. Set in Brighton, it features Lia Williams as Bella, a frumpy doormat given a mystic makeover by Ian Richardson and let loose on the seafront as a femme very fatale. She rapidly sees off neighbouring pervert Rufus Sewell (hammered to death), lecherous dentist David McCallum (run over with his own car after an oral sex session he probably regretted) and an extremely fat man called Norman (post-coital bag over the head). A gun come into play later as Lea finds the Sussex constabulary a bit off the pace in dealing with predators and psychos. Never mind the rest of Winner’s oeuvre; this was surely Sir Michael’s pass key to the pantheon. 

SIR ALEX AND ARSENE

So Sir Alex Ferguson breaks his seven-year vow of silence and agrees to chat to the BBC, nobly ending the famous seven year rift. Hats off to Mark Thompson. According to The Guardian, the BBC Director-General went to Manchester in person to seek an audience with the great man. Wonderful father, husband and trophy-winner he may be, but Ferguson is notoriously thin-skinned and prickly with the wrong sections of the media. The BBC, in his book, goofed inexcusably in 2004 with the screening of Fergie and Son, a documentary looking at transfer shenanigans and pointing the finger at his boy Jason in what was “a horrible attack on my son’s honour”. No post-match MOTD utterances since, the nation and football’s loss, having to make do with the mighty Mike Phelan.



It’s difficult to get too excited about Thompson’s coup. Man who presides over era of cutbacks and dumbing down at temple of broadcasting cuts deal with bolshy, tantrum-prone football boss who is, frankly, old enough to know better. Can Thompson now sort out Syria?

With nervous MOTD hacks now in line to quiz the maestro, can we expectsome probing off-pitch stuff about bedroom antics that went wrong? "The lad Giggs is stilll a champion shagger..."   Methinks not. I for one would like to know what Sir Alex, the man from Clydeside who backed the Miner’s Strike, makes of the disturbing, stratospheric salaries on offer at rivals Manchester City. But Ferguson, like others, has been disappointingly supine in confronting football’s culture of excess and selfishness. Perhaps someone out there could set up ‘Fergie nd Fergie’, handing over interview duties to the Duchess of York, another public figure much-maligned by the media who could bring out her namesake’s more cuddly side.


In a perfect world, Ferguson would have gone before the BBC’s intrepid mike-wielder after a humbling home defeat. But life isn’t like that. In fairness, there was no crowing or hurling of pizzas afterthe 8-2 demolition of Arsenal's Second XI, , but some quite kind and gracious stuff about injuries and Arsene Wenger being a worthy adversary. But what odds another bad mood Fergie moment before Xmas?

I have greeted previous Arsenal disasters with smug relish. Particularly fun were the shaming FA Cup exits at York City (1985) and Wrexham (1992), ‘Nayim from the half-way line’ and the League Cup meltdown against Luton in 1988. I meanly punched the air in celebration after Tony Adams was sent down for drink-driving. Then again, I did see Crystal Palace go in 1-4 down at Highbury on the first day ofthe 1990s. Those days of Arsenl-baiting and hating are long gone. It would be unseemly now to empty the salt cellar into open wounds . Sort it out, Arsene.

MCJ IS NO CMJ

It's always a relief to rediscover a lost copy of Marcus Berkmann's The Rainmen and feel again that instant kinship with cricket-watchers from an era long before England's over-hyped climb to the cricketing summit. Berkmann's book is brutally, but beautifully nostalgic. You can almost hear 'Soul Limbo' by Booker T and the MGs bursting out as he reminds you of the mid-order collapses and routine pastings that haunted English cricket and the BBC's men at the mike who documented all this.

Overbearing Test Match Special devotees always made a point of turning down the TV commentary and pumping up Arlott, Johnston, Swanton, Trueman et al as a point of principle. I am still fairly happy in the company of the their TMS successors, Aggers, Tuffers and naughty but nice Blowers, but do miss some of the TV stalwarts, loving recalled by Bekmann. It's difficult to remember that Jim Laker is 25 years in the grave. I now wince at the bile I directed at the largely harmless, and also long departed,  dome-headed Peter West, but must concur with Uncle Marcus that Jack Bannister was (and still is?) dismally dreary, so too 'Lord' Ted Dexter. 

Sky subscribers can now get all the cricket they want and more, but what the discerning cricket lover, bound by terrestrial constraints, surely wants, is a well-delivered TV highlights package. In the past, this was there, fronted by Richie Benaud, still without peer as a sharp, judicious summariser who tells it like it is. In days of yore, the BBC offered us late night Richie,  the perfect way to round off a night's viewing, particularly if you hadn't followed the days's play and knew nothing of the score.

Sad to say, Channel Five's early evening round-up falls horribly short of Benaud's standards.
The music is truly horrid.  Some years back, Channel Five (or was it Channel Four then?) went for Lou Bega's Mambo Number Five  as its theme music.  Better than Chihuahua perhaps, but I thought this was a paen to tropical bonking, "a little Sandra in the sun...a little Mary all night long" etc, not really what you want when the covers are being brought on again at Trent Bridge. 

Today, we are reminded that "The Time is Now", a message relayed at begining and end, while  trailing and closing the interminable ad breaks, which are full of plodding sponsor plugs and other drivel. Some late night Googling suggests this may be the work of Russell (or Russ??) Ballard, a soft rocker whose efforts have been recorded by Rainbow, the Bay City  Rollers and Frida from Abba. Anyone remember the Phil Collins-produced 'Something going On'?

Viewing figures are on the up, topping 1.5 million, but the message boards are alive with angry punters complaining about the bad timing and serious online deficiencies. Vaughan, Boycott and Hughes are all fine up to a point. It is mein host, M.C.J. Nicholas  you want to hurl bumpers or beamers at. As a CF malcontent pointed out: 'the camera clearly loves him and the relationship is clearly reciprocal'.  

I tend to agree. I would rather have a hail and hearty Peter West welcoming me to the proceedings than oleagnious Mark. I hesitate to use such a big adjective, but the dictionary offers: smarmy, unctuous and fawning, which seems to sum up MCJ's presentational qualities all too well.  I am sure he was a fine skipper of Hampshire,  although one recalls his appointment triggering the departure of county veteran pro Trevor Jesty, who moaned about the committee's preference for a posh schoolboy with too many initials over his own claims to the capaincy. Sour grapes, Trev, but you may have had a point.

MY KIND OF PRINCE

It was all rather downplayed and overlooked amidst the fuss over phone hacking, but spare a thought or two for 'Airmiles Andy', dropped and sidelined, no longer 'Special Envoy' for British industry. Where were the lavish tributes from export titans and other heavy hitters? Nicholas Witchell, normally reliably wet and sycophantic on matters royal, contributed a rather bitchy look back at Andy's role. There was snide reference elsewhere to unfortunate friendships and Jeffrey Epstein not being the kind of guy a roving prince should hang out with.

Perhaps the wrong chap for the wrong job? It must be said that quizzed on his role batting for Britain, Andrew did tend to glaze over. You got the impression his heart might not really be in flogging missile systems to potentates or whatever he did. Never mind. I'm sure there are plenty of other openings out there. Perhaps a directorship of a strip club franchise, or a more active role at Norwich City, too much foreign travel having prevented regular attendance at Carrow Road.

While even hardened republicans may concede that the Queen is pretty good at her job, that Charles, albeit in a rather batty way, cares about the planet and Anne has more than done her stuff for Save the Children and other noble causes, the gloves tend to come off when it comes to the younger princes. What can be said in Prince Edward's favour? At least he had the nouse to quit the Marines in the face of his father's contempt and appears to be more naff than nasty. And as for Andy....

Born in 1960, Andrew was the first son born to a reigning monarch in 100 years. For years, wicked tongues have wagged, suggesting he was the product of a tryst between Her Majesty and Harry Porchester, manager ofthe Queen's racing stable. Inexplicably, Prince Phillip made little reference to this in his recent round of 90th birthday interviews.

Long before Harry did his stuff in Afghanistan, Andrew was in a helicopter over the Falklands, part of his 20-year career in the Royal Navy. But even then, the Press always went for the 'Randy Andy' angle, rather than the 'Helicopter Hero'. My favourite punch-line to off-colour royal joke:
"the Argies couldn't blow up Andy 's chopper".

It is fair to say that the 'chopper' in question has seen quite a bit of active service,prompting suggestions that Andy was more interested in trophy escorts that UK exports. Year ago, there was Vicki Hodge, older and naughtier, one time star of 'Confessions of a Sex Maniac'. Better remembered is Koo Stark, who has battled breast cancer and bankruptcy in recent years and sounds to have been ill-treated by the Royals. There has been a Bond girl or two, a Cadbury's Flake model, Robert Maxwell's daughter. Rock diva Courtney Love said Andrew knocked on her door, but to no avail.

Andy may be a double-chinned playboy, but he also seemes to be a devoted dad and a stout friend to the wayward, but unforgettable Fergie, whose goals come in hat-tricks.

I have never met a Royal, but did once attend a rather dour event hosted by Anne, which involved skipping lunch in recognition of gloval hunger. I can't see that being Andrew's kind of caper. But I can imagine a night on the town with him, on th back of some boring export promotion gig. . "Where's the totty round here?" he would enquire and we would head off to a 'Pimps and Hookers' party across town, the booze flowing freely, the conversation getting ever more louche and indiscreet, while Andy assured me I was a "bloody good bloke". You are too,sir. Trebles all round.

ANORAK ATTACK - WAS BEEFY THE BUSINESS?

Cricket lovers have a lot of anniversaries to choose from in 2011. Much has already been made of Graham Gooch’s doggedly magnificent century against the Windies in 1991, which helped England to their first home win since 1969 against opponents just beginning to lose their sheen. Australians will remember Richie Benaud (oh so missed when Channel Five give us the smarmy Mark Nicholas) spinning Australia to victory in 1961. In retaliation, there was Illingworth’s Ashes victory Down Under, 1970-71.

But inevitably, most of the attention has gone to 1981, year of Royal Wedding, Toxteth, Ricky Villa at Wembley, Aldaniti’s epic Grand National Victory, ‘Ghosttown’ (and ‘Japanese Boy’) and this writer’s twin failures: to secure a place at Oxford University and lose his virginity to a Swedish engineering student and Beatles/Bowie fan on a ferry to Crete.

But inevitably, much of the focus has been on ‘Beefy’s Ashes’, how a bearded I.T.Botham, still only 25, stripped of the captaincy after a double duck at Lords (bowled by slow left armer Ray Bright in the second innings, ouch) blasted his way back, helped by shrink and guru Mike Brearley. The rest everybody knows: “Botham bats like Jessop” to make 149 at Headingley, the prelude to an amazing Bob Willis demolition; Botham given ball at Edgebaston and cleans up with five wickets for one run; Botham goes on the rampage at Old Trafford, quick-fire, pugnacious ton off Lillee and company after crowd treated to warm-up act of Tavare and Boycott crawling along at 1.5 runs an over.

The BBC documentary, “Botham: the Legend of ‘81” was predictably reverential, but quite good in parts. Contemporaries, notably a still chippy Bob Willis, long without those fabulous locks, Viv Richards, Joel Garner, David Gower and Mike Brearley were all up for it. It would have been good to have something from Geoff Boycott or Brian Close. Peter Roebuck, the enemy of Taunton, was also missing, but this was maybe not the time or place.

Botham’s other biographer, the languid Simon Wilde, was fair enough, but the non-cricketing pundits brought little but clichés, cod analysis and drooling schoolboy hero worship. Pick of the bunch was Elton John, who clearly knows the man, even if one winced at all that "he was James Dean...Marlon Brando" stuff. I would rather lend my Playfair annuals to Elton John than Mick Jagger, whose love of cricket has always seemed as much an affectation as as his love of the Blues. "He was a real anti-establishment hero", said the Street-fighting knight. Takes one to know one, Mick. Botham is a good Tory, I suspect. It would surely be more entertaining to meet the un-knighted Keef in the Long Room. The ubiquitous Stephen Fry was over-indulged as always and wholly surplus to requirements. So too were most of the accompanying pop tracks: “Starman” by David Bowie (1972, when Botham was in Somerset Second XI), Blondies’s unmemorable ‘Atomic’ (1980, when our man and team-mates were losing to the Windies).

To my shame, John Major’s over-professed love of cricket, tea-time chats with Jonners, spotted on camera looking studious at The Oval etc, has softened my contempt for the man, but I think we have heard enough from this quarter. “It was a miracle like Dunkirk”, gushed John. “What Botham did really lifted the nation”. I’m not sure all those hooked sixes and Aussie batting collapses meant all that much to the hundreds of thousands unemployed, John. It was the Falklands Factor, not the Botham Factor that saved Maggie at the polls. I’d still be curious to know if Major and Edwina Currie were tuned into Test Match Special on while getting it on, but that’s just me. Nothing from Tim Hudson, the man who saw Ian Botham storming Hollywood, one of many king-sized prats to attach themselves to the great game and its icons.
On the credit side, Botham’s wife and kids were good value. The man’s marching campaign against leukemia was moving and well told. I could have done with a bit more former Miss Barbados, broken beds and dope-smoking, plus his infamous take on Pakistan as “the kind of place you’d send your mother-in-law on holiday”, but no matter. At least we didn’t Ian in panto, angling or playing football for Scunthorpe.
On the pitch, we did get hints of the disappointments that came later. A journalist friend, less-than-charmed by a declining cricket champion during a terse, unrevealing phone interview, commented acidly that “most of Botham’s highlights in recent years have been in his hair”. The haircuts did get pretty horrible at times. Mercifully, the man who smote the Aussies in ’81 had a solid yeoman look; the blonde mullet came later.
As for the cricket…Botham rated his century at Brisbane in 86/87 as more important than anything in 1981. In truth, there was not much thereafter. Injury took its toll after 1987. International appearances dried up. There was the odd cameo in the 1992 World Cup, plus some old-fashioned Aussie-bashing for lack of respect for the monarchy, but as in previous tournaments (1979, 1983 etc), the Botham input was modest as it always was in international one-day cricket. Critics (cynics?) point out that many of the best-known Botham heroics came against lesser teams. He destroyed a post-Packer Pakistan 2nd XI in 1978 and the 1981 Aussies, led by Kim Hughes not Greg Chappell, were not overburdened with stars, although Allan Border was fast-emerging. Botham may be held in great regard by Richards and Garner, but his record against the Windies in their pomp was decidedly poor.
I’m still a bit unconvinced. I only saw Botham in action twice. Brought in for n early one-day match in 1976 against Lloyd, Richards, Holding and co, Botham was carted out of Edgebaston by Gordon Greenidge. Two years later, Botham made 80 against Sussex in the Gillette Cup Final and had a quick burst of wickets, looking a straightforward bet for Man of the Match. But that honour went to Paul Parker, who steered Sussex to a comfortable victory. Parker played only one Test for England, appearing at The Oval in the last match of Botham’s summer.

SO HURT BY HELEN

It takes time to adjust to the end of another 'Apprentice' series. For reasons too complicated to mention, I have only managed to watch two of these epic, three-month battles and rather wish I had seen more. A poisoned left food and doctor's orders to do nothing too arduous enabled me to see ALL of 2009's offerings, the Year of Jasmina, big-mouthed 'Pantsman' Phillip, sinister Deborah, Sandhurst Ben et al, even tuning into Five Live for the day after expulsion interviews. A shopping expedition to Aylesbury was redeemed by an invaluable, cut-price complation of series past, so I can refer knowingly to 'The Badger' and other stuff.

Ths year it all seemms a bit anti-climactic and pallid. Must admit that, even as a golfaphobe, Darren Clarke's triumph at Sandwich meant a wee bit more than Lord Sugar's wary endorsement of nice but nerdy Tom's Bad Back Chairs. So too did the Murdochs' day out in Westminster.

It was fun but cruel to see Jim run out of cliches and unravel under interrogation. The Eastwood of 'Grand Torino' or 'Dirty Hary' would have fought harder and longer. I will be sure to give winsome Susan a cheery wave should I ever find her flogging exotic soaps and potions at Greenwich Market, but boy was she a pain. But what of Helen? So cool under pressure before, so clear-eyed and focused. Ten wins out of eleven, but her collapse on the last leg was worse than Devon Loch's at Aintree.

Lord Sugar clearly felt let down, so too, one imagines, Helen's friends and family. But the greatest shame and disappointment of all surely fell to Greggs. The finest bakery chain in the land (or in Christendom, I would venture) and she an annointed daughter. But come the hour, come the greatest test of all and what did we get? A half-baked (pun fully intended) life supervision service, seemingly plucked from some fourth-rate American self-improvement manual. Thinking outside the box streamlining the day to day....zzzzzzz.

What we should have had was surely a little Greggsian empire-building and some sound advice to the cash-strapped on how to fill your face for £1.79. All those years working with the company that gave us the Sausage, Beans and Cheese Melt, the awe-inspiring Soup and Sandwich combo, the mighty Tuna Bloomer, plus her own star performances on biscuits and pie n'mash and all we got a was a humiliating, last-ditch attempt to win over critics with a bakery-based Plan B. I was close to tears. Could Helen not have swiped a few secrets (chief assistant to CEO and all that), improvised some recipes (perhaps with inventor Tom) and come up with a GLOBAL range of high carb treats? As a longtime Greggs consumer I would gladly have taken on a consultancy and test piloted a new range of snacks. The mainstays are well-known and reassuringly British. But how about something a bit more Continental? For the savouries, a Wiener Schnitzel, Grueyere and Baked Bean Strudel could be just the ticket, leaving just enough room for a cheekily fattening Fudge Fondant or Marshmallow Mousse?

Waiting for a train at Newcastle, I was tempted by a Greggs Belgian Bun, topped by twinkling cherry. But such a heavenly treat felt wrong in the immediate aftermath of Helen's humbling. But like Gregg's under-rated pastry, she will rise again.