Recording (for broadcast next Tuesday) a programme in my Great Lives series for BBC radio, my guest was David Lammy. Mr Lammy, who is black, is a government minister. He had chosen the American stand-up, Richard Pryor, who also was black. Lammy and I spent a lively half-hour discussing Pryor's (in some ways) troubled life, and listening to a few clips of brilliant comedy from an entertainer of whom I had known nothing. At times our conversation centred on the almost unbelievable racial prejudice, social and official, that dogged Pryor throughout his career.

We're talking about the 1960s and 1970s here, and it was shocking to be reminded how late the idea of racial equality came to America. My guest and I (I fear) may have lapsed into self-righteousness as we talked about those bad old days and primitive attitudes. How different (we implied) from modern times in our own dear country. Mr Lammy was a pleasant, fluent and thoughtful guest.

After the recording I saw the minister to the rather posh car booked for him, waiting outside. The minister shook my hand, got into the back seat, and shut the door. I waved. The (white) driver nodded politely to his passenger, then wound down his window.

“Where's he going?” he said to me.

Beijing: G8 with Lycra

Why, I cannot say, but I just can't get interested in these Olympics. Nor am I hearing others talking much about them. There's plenty in the media, of course, particularly about the politics, China, human rights, drug tests, smog, etc; but about the games themselves, the contestants, the big contests - very little in the street, pub or bus.

Partly this must be because British hopes are meagre this time; but if I'm not wrong there's something deeper: I sense a withdrawing tide of public interest in the whole institution, and in the events as events. The Olympics are choking themselves: choking themselves with puffed-upness and officialdom; choking themselves with money, with ceremony and committee, and with grandstanding and the trappings of state. Choking themselves with pride.

C.Northcote Parkinson once wrote that the beginnings of the decline of any great corporation may be tracked through receipts for the purchase of plate glass and marble. Something similar is happening to the Olympics. They are getting like any other international summit: like meetings of the UN Security Council, or a gathering of the G8: events that receive acres of media coverage and the benefit of much official and journalistic wisdom - but which are alienated from mass culture.

If anything can revive the Olympic heartbeat, as opposed to the pomp and circumstance, London can. But it may be too late. We shall see.

Reverse logic

Why can't people reverse any more? August brings tens of thousands of townies on to the narrow country lanes of Derbyshire, and it's hell out there between the hedgerows. But why should there be a problem? When two cars meet, one must reverse to the nearest passing place. As to who yields, the occasional dispute may occur; the less soluble difficulty is that so many modern drivers are simply incapable of reversing at all. They weave all over the place, usually into the ditch.

These people shouldn't be on the road. How did they get past their driving examination? Because there is no test of long-distance reversing. Trainee drivers must show they can reverse around one corner, execute a three-point turn, and parallel-park: all urban challenges. A test fit for rural purposes would involve reversing a hundred yards along a narrow, winding course marked out by traffic cones.

Nobody unable to do this should be allowed into the Derbyshire Peak District. I want border controls.

Rodent repelled

My squirrel problem is over. I've been road-testing the Squirrel Buster Plus, a fiendishly clever bird feeder which relies on the weight of anything heavier than a few birds to pull shut its seed ports. The pesky squirrels can see fat birds pecking from its perches, but when the rodent clambers up, the portcullis comes down. Ha! No doubt Derbyshire squirrels are now huddled in burrows, poring over diagrams, plotting a response. Logic and physics say they must fail.

So in a spirit of holiday generosity, departing for Colombia, I withdraw that menu for roast squirrel I published earlier. It may not be necessary. On my return I shall be seeking your advice on how to poison rats without threatening other wildlife. There has been an awkward incident with a cherished dachshund.

Times Recommends

• Bank charges hit us for being human
• Sorry, Father, thou still shalt not steal
• The shed where Santa’s failures go to die