Oddly there was a TV programme on him yesterday, the review in today's Indie.
Some folk are also inclined to mistake blokeishness for being a nice bloke, as became clear in Keith Meets Keith, a strange but compelling documentary in which one well-known roisterer, Keith Allen, went in search of another, the former TV chef Keith Floyd, finding him in a village near Avignon looking terrible, at least one decade and possibly two older than his 65 years.
There is already plenty of evidence to suggest that Floyd is not a particularly nice man, and plenty more emerged here, but his unflagging capacity to drink, smoke and swear to excess ? including a liberal sprinkling of the c-word, which has officially lost its status as the last TV taboo ? was seemingly enough to convince Allen that he was "one of the most honest and genuine people I've ever met". Now, I don't mean to sound pious. I've even been known to enjoy a spot of carousing myself. But there was nothing honest or genuine in the gruesome spectacle of Floyd getting steadily more hammered, more melancholy and more abusive at a lunch with his daughter Poppy, from whom he had been estranged for 10 years. It was car-crash television. The only thing more agonising than watching was not watching.
