WEEBLES WOBBLE - AND SO DOES POIROT

IS it my imagination or has David Suchet's Poirot turned into a Belgian Weeble?

Watching the latest episode of Agatha Christie's Poirot (who else's Poirot would it be?) on ITV1 (Sunday), I was struck by the burgeoning paunch displayed by the moustachioed one.

I am not a great fan of Agatha Christie's mysteries, mainly because you might as well just tune into the last five minutes, when the sleuth reveals all about whodunit and why.

Poirot, in particular, can be an irritating little tyke, with his pompous demeanour and fussy ways, so I usually avoid having to confront my aversion to the central character by switching channels when that famous signature tune pipes up.

Unfortunately, the telltale opening dirge appears to have been surreptitiously ditched for the current series, so on Sunday night I found myself watching the episode Taken At The Flood.

The title may have come from Shakespeare, but the characters were pure Christie. True to form, there was the slightly dim policeman who didn't mind at all the fact that a creepy looking Continental with OCD was tagging on to his investigation - and making more progress than he was.

The family at the centre of the story - the Cloades (which I heard as Clothes all the way through, making the fact that they were 'washing their dirty linen in public' highly appropriate!) - were a mixed bunch of eccentrics, crooks and downright nasty pieces of work. As they gathered for the usual long-winded denouement, however, the arch villain turned out to be the manipulative Irishman David Hunter and the woman at the centre of the mystery, millionaire's widow Rosaleen, proved to be an impostor. In the middle of all the twists and turns, which included mass murder, a fatal accident, a suicide and an attempted suicide, Poirot preened and postured as he anticipated his moment in the spotlight.

Unveiled as a full on baddie, David Hunter met his end with a sack on his face as the hangman did his worst; while Poirot was seen accepting a particularly ugly African carving as a gift from Lynn - one of the more acceptable members of the Cloade family.

Talking of the facially challenged, how can a nation as vast as the USA produce such poor specimens of manhood as the male candidates for the title American Idol? Have you seen them?

Goofy Elliott has a good voice, but you wouldn't want his face staring at you from a poster on the bedroom wall. Likewise, rocker Chris can hold a tune, but the Bruce Willis look is so 20th century. Hair is the main problem with the three other surviving males. Taylor may be prematurely grey, but it's the pudding bowl cut that grates (along with his habit of singing with his body doubled up, as though last night's vindaloo was kicking in with a vengeance!). Baby-faced Ace might just be presentable, if only he wasn't sporting shoulder length curls; but there is no hope at all for blond hillbilly Bucky, who actually wore his flowing locks in what looked like ringlets for one performance.

And to think we were embarrassed by Chico!