A forthcoming book about the relationship between Gordon Brown and Tony Blair will say, according to the Sunday Times, that the Chancellor shed "tears of anger and frustration" last year when Alastair Campbell described him as "psychologically flawed". The book is about to be written by James Naughtie, opera buff and Today presenter, reputedly for the sum of £300,000.
The advance publicity yells that this "explosive allegation" is "sure to create massive interest". As allegations go, it is scarcely in the Semtex league - even if it were true, which Brown's friends, and his Channel 4 brother Andrew, assure me it is not.
Applying the test of cui bono, as one must in these situations, from where did this fib emanate? The book is about two politicians. One of them is made to look like a cry-baby, while the other strides manfully towards his great destiny, pausing only to bomb Novi Sad. Draw your own conclusions. My main concern is the precedent set when a book's "centrepiece" story is hyped in the Sunday papers before a word has even been written. It takes all the fun out of manuscript theft.
Frank Dobson is sometimes, perhaps unfairly, described as the owner of the second foulest mouth in the Commons. A few days after the death of Stephen Milligan MP, he came up to me in the cloisters of Palace Yard saying: "If he's the brightest and the best of the Tory party, and he w***s himself to death, what does it tell us about the rest of them?" But Dobbo pales into artistic insignificance alongside John Prescott. I hear that a Bastardgate-style tape of the Deputy Prime Minister's exotic language while waiting to go on air is circulating in the BBC. I haven't heard it, but they are already calling it Effingate.
Poor wee Oofy Cross-Dresser (aka Benjamin Wegg-Prosser, Mandy's little helper), exhibited his jealousy about my building society savings in his NS diary last week. It's taken more than a year for that angry little zit to burst. Perhaps it has something to do with his financial situation. His stay at the Sun was brief, and he left his £50,000-a-year job at Pearson, friends say, to start up his own Internet company. But then he asked the Fabian Society if he could attend a dinner as "unwaged" (ie, for free). Not even the Fabians are that daft, so the answer was "No".
Behind the fulsome tributes from the Liberal Democrats to the late Michael Colvin, the Tory MP who died in a fire at his home in Romsey, Hants, lies political turmoil. The Lib Dems think that the constituency could fall prey to dissatisfaction with William Hague. Majorities much higher than Colvin's 8,000 votes have proved vulnerable in the past. So the search is on for a high-profile figure, preferably a woman. Unfortunately, the Lib Dems have few of the former and virtually none of the latter. The name of Jane Bonham-Carter, formerly Paddy Ashdown's spin-doctor and now a television producer, has emerged from the shadows, only to be rejected on grounds of undue sociability. Besides, she seems destined for the Lords. New Labour doesn't have a prayer, though the local party can boast the youngest chairman in the country and the oldest vice-chairman, a sprightly 94 year old who has been knocking on doors in Romsey for most of Labour's century.
What do I see flapping in the Royal Box at Wembley during the Worthington Cup Final between Leicester City and Tranmere Rovers? Why, none other than the jug ears of Sir Richard Wilson, the cabinet secretary, of whom it may be confidently stated that his knowledge of football is less than his grasp of Statutory Instrument 687 (convertibility of the euro). Happily, the chief whip, Ann Taylor, was on hand to tell him to which end of the field he should direct his gaze. She will no doubt have to declare this entertainment in the Members' Register of Interests. But who is guarding the guardians? Why shouldn't the mandarins have to declare such "gifts", too?
The writer is chief political commentator for the "Mirror"
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