King Cohen

Of all the glittering myriad reasons not to go to drama school, my lissom young chap, consider, in particular, this: having to listen to a blonde girl who cannot sing performing an unaccompanied rendition of Chelsea Hotel #2 like she really, really feels it. Yes, I was that girl, and lord did I feel it. Blessed Is The Memory. Or, indeed, The Singer Must Die.

Prone to spontaneous bouts of self-humiliation as I am, this image has actually resurfaced because I have been listening to the Leonard Cohen interview on last week's Front Row highlights podcast. Catch it before it disappears - the man is, well, he's Leonard Cohen, for God's sake. Monasticism, Dylan, Judaism, songwriting, misery. Strongly agree.

Seriously, just listen to that song. That is a song.

And now I need to brave the aqueous wilds of the north to see his art exhibition A Private Gaze at the Richard Goodall Gallery in Manchester, so I can get someone to buy me this.

The podcast is worth listening to the end, nominally for Alan Ayckbourn and Ronald Harwood, but mainly for that intensely great little creature that is Mark Lawson's laugh. The gurgle after the comment to Ayckbourn about 'mandatory snow shovels' will enrich your life.

Thoughrufuswainwright'sversionofhallelujahisthebest.

What?