My post-colonial hackles are bristling again. This time the offender is the toxic AA Gill. In yesterday’s Sunday Times he reviewed some new gardening show co-hosted by Diarmuid Gavin:Diarmuid is the bad boy of gardening, a bit of a little rude rebel, a red-hot poker among the lilies. Gavin defends his wicked rep with a surly naughtiness; he abuses plants, swears at hedges, sneers at shrubs and beams with a buttercup joy when he says something shocking, like: �Roses smell.� As with a lot of presenters with regional accents, his is growing ever more rustic. It is now positively thatched. The Irish, bog-thick brogue would fit perfectly into a 1950s Ealing comedy. Regional accents, regional bloody accents? Of course, reading anything by AA Gill is a bit like eating a Big Mac. You undertake both activities with a vague sense of shame. And after finishing, as the regrets over your weakness start, you shouldn’t expect a sympathetic ear if you want to voice your dissatisfaction. But I’m surprised at the Sunday Times–it’s an Irish paper, isn’t it?