Once upon a time a very nice man, Ben Frow, a serious executive at Five, decided this column should be on television. We did a pilot. Everyone loved it. It was to be commissioned as a series.

Then dear Ben was fired from Five and his successor, as they always do, said, “Anything he did, I won’t.” So my TV series is now being offered elsewhere by others and good luck to them.

Ben got a great job in Ireland heading one of their TV stations. He recommended lunching at Thornton’s, a restaurant in the Fitzwilliam hotel facing St Stephen’s Green in Dublin. There was awful, discordant, piped music, which I persuaded them to turn off.

They brought us a freebie of king scallops from Bear Island with a light truffle mousse. Ben observed, “Never mind the truffle mousse, we’ve got the bread, where’s the butter?” He added, “I wish they’d tell you you’re going to get a freebie because I wouldn’t have ordered a starter.”

We waited for our first course. “They’re a bit slow,” remarked Ben.

“We should have had the main course by now,” I said, “let alone the starter.”

When my first course finally arrived Geraldine asked, “What’s that you’ve got?”

I replied, “It was so long ago I ordered it, I can’t remember.”

Ben said, “I think it’s the chef’s signature dish.”

“If so he’s a bloody slow writer,” I observed. It was braised pig head with shallot purée poitin sauce. Pretty good.

My main course of roast goose confit, red cabbage, fondant potato and morel sauce was a disaster. A little pile of goose slices that were totally tasteless. I had a housekeeper who wore a terrible wig, but she did a whole roast goose that was magical. Thornton’s was nouvelle cuisine gone mad. Itsy-bitsy nothing.

After the dessert they brought a large tray of petits fours. Ben said, “I wouldn’t have ordered dessert if I’d known we were going to get this.” So he wouldn’t have ordered a starter or a dessert. That would have saved me a quid or two.

I had a lemon tart, which was so light and fluffy it was hardly there at all. The meal was like the hotel – modern, dreary and not very distinguished.

As we left I saw a plaque by the entrance announcing it was owned by “Summit hotels and resorts”. Summit? They didn’t even reach base camp.

I read an interview with someone called Clare Smyth, who is head chef at Gordon Ramsay’s restaurant on Royal Hospital Road. In it Ms Smyth made the appalling remark, “I don’t know why people compare me to Angela Hartnett. She’s a one star Michelin chef, I’m a three star chef.”

Calm down, dear. You are not a three Michelin star chef. You’re an employee of Gordon Ramsay. He was awarded three Michelin stars. You haven’t even earned a commendation from the Jewish Blind School, let alone a Michelin star.

If the generous Mr Ramsay lets you have your own restaurant, then we’ll see how many stars you may, or may not, get. In the meantime to put down Angela Hartnett is mean-spirited and catty.

Angela is my favourite of all the Gordon Ramsay disciples. Her food at the Connaught hotel was totally memorable, including one ghastly, almost raw, roast suckling pig. Angela has her own marvellous style. Her food is not overfussed and plate decorated.

If Clare Smyth ever achieves such excellence, then she can crow and boast with justification. I’m delighted to hear Angela is returning to Mayfair in her own “Italian” restaurant, Murano, just off Curzon Street. It’s to be decorated with Murano glass.

In case you didn’t know Murano is an island off Venice specialising in, you guessed it, glass. Opening is scheduled for July 1. Good luck, Angela. I’ll be there, for sure. Don’t invite Clare.

My vote’s been for Labour ever since Tone became leader. I guessed, correctly, he’d be to the right of the adorable Mrs Thatcher. I never voted in a mayoral election, but I did this time to dispose of Ken Livingstone. I lived through the second world war German blitz on London. A barrel of laughs compared to what Ken did to us.

I met Boris Johnson at a reception. “You’ve got to reset the traffic lights at the Trafalgar Square end of the Mall,” I said. “They’re on red for 50 seconds and green for only 10.”

Boris corrected me, giving even more dire figures showing how much those lights favour red over green.

This man has attention to detail. Everything about him, I like. Particularly if he makes my drive to the Ivy many minutes faster.

Times Recommends

• How to season a wok
• Chicago Rib Shack hits back at its critics
• Gordon Ramsay: Indian barbecue