As Dame Edna Everage might say: live life to the full, possums Clearly they do things differently in Azerbaijan: it's a place where old age triumphs. A remote village in the Urals - called Buranovo - has produced the group that will be Russia's entry for the Eurovision song contest, held in Baku. They are called Buranovskije Babushki. It's the word Babushki that's the giveaway, reminding generations of children from the West of the Russian toy dolls that stack within each other, down to the tiniest figure. Buranovo's group is just like them: six grannies, all in their seventies, singing what sounds to us like a traditional folk song, but turns out to be contrived folk-disco in what is already - perhaps unsurprisingly - the high point of their musical career. There they are, lining up for Moscow's final selection: nodding and bobbing in their colourful folk dresses, thick woolly socks, heavy coin necklaces and shoes that seem to be made of straw. Their sound is thick and rich and may well challenge the tones of our own entry, the 75-year-old Engelbert Humperdinck. You can't but smile. Much as you smile at the Best Exotic Marigold Hotel film: here are old people on show having a good time and refusing to fulfil the stereotypes of Victor Meldrew and Grumpy Old Men. It rejoices my heart to see them. But as one act arrives, another departs. Barry Humphries announces that the current tour will be Dame Edna Everage's last. Barry is 78 and must be amazingly fit to have coped with the rigours of touring. He is, he says, "feeling a little senior." I shall miss Edna personally, for I knew her long before her fame. Barry developed the character in the Sixties, trying out her outrageous kind of humour on Late Night Line-Up, the chat show on which I was a presenter. In those days, Edna was a frumpy fusspot clutching a drab handbag and wearing glum clothes. Slowly, Barry grew more outrageous and pushed the humour ever further. Now he is to hang up his spectacles. He speaks of "moving on." I recognise the sense that time is getting short to do all the other things we want to do before we go. The message as you hit your seventies is: don't hang around, do it now, before it's too late. Enjoy whatever comes next, Barry. I visit the Olympic site. No, not so. I visit The Greenway, which is the broad pedestrian track running alongside it, designed to let you see what is going on in the vast building site. There it all is, spread out before you: the Olympic stadium, the aquatic centre, the Velopark, and in the distance the Olympic Village. You know all this because various viewing platforms tell you. There is also a little café and a display of information. On this particular Sunday morning, we turn up at Pudding Mill Lane Station and join a drift of visitors making their way there. Clearly, people are already eager to nose around, learn more and get a first sighting of what's to come. What a shame, then, that nowhere is a single architect credited. These fine buildings are the work of our most gifted architects: they deserve some praise. Let's have their names, please! No sooner is Cheltenham over than another race is on: that for the next Archbishop of Canterbury. What an amazing clash of the secular and the sacred. Everyone in the running has to show Christian charity and humility, at the same time hoping their chances are good and boosting - in the most Christian way possible - their own candidature. Rowan Williams has himself indicated that the job is a punishing one, suggesting any sane human being would run a mile. But there's no accounting for ambition and the competitive spirit: who with taste for a serene and balanced life would want to be a football manager, the chairman of Tesco or, for that matter, prime minister?