It is an imposing sight. Each morning, after he has ironed Peter Mandelson's copy of the Times, Shaun Woodward's butler takes the redisgraced ex- minister's two dogs for a walk in St James's Park. Mandy follows a yard behind, and the Special Branch detective a few paces behind him. The stately procession down Queen Anne's Gate is watched with ill-suppressed amusement by bystanders. Who carries the pooper-scooper?

Charles Clarke is exercised about his new job. How should the Blair-appointed boss of new Labour style himself? He is commonly referred to as chairman, but that post is already held, constitutionally, by Maggie Jones. Clarke asked his fellow Norwich MP, Ian Gibson, what title he should requisition. Gibson, a wry ex-Trot, suggested: "Call yourself tsar." This is not possible, because there are already too many tsars. So this column's summer competition is to find Charlie a proper moniker. I think we can rule out fuhrer, duce and caudillo without argument. Nabob? Too foreign. Baron? Makes him sound like a union leader. Chief executive has a nice ring to it. So has president (the Liberal Democrats have one of those, so it might assist The Project). Minister for MilIbank would be fine, if the party wasn't moving out. Lord High Executioner is what he is, but that gives the game away. A copy of Francis Wheen's biography of Karl Marx to the best title suggested by 20 July.

There is another solution to the Clarke problem, which is to change Maggie Jones's title. When the Blairite wombles met at Congress House, under the aegis of Progress, the unreadable magazine described her as "chair of Labour's NEC". Her correct title is chair of the party as a whole. Not that she was bothered about the downgrading: "I don't see any problem. I have spoken to Charles Clarke. He has his role, and I have mine. I don't see what all the fuss is about."

The conference was to discuss "first thoughts for Labour's second term". Cries of "shame" greeted any criticism of the Mandy, so no very original thoughts, then.

The post of political editor of the Sunday Times is up for grabs, with Michael Prescott's departure to the lobbyists Shandwick International for a six-figure salary. His deputy, Eben Black, a feisty ex-tabloid operator, is clearly the obvious choice to succeed. But newspapers are rum things, and I hear that the Sunday Times bosses are looking to hire Trevor Kavanagh, political editor of the Sun. Ozzie Trev might just be attracted, bearing in mind that the tiresome daily grind cannot go on for ever - especially if new Labour robs him of the promised referendum on the euro, which keeps his blood pressure in highly active mode.

To nobody's great surprise, the votes promised in the Tory leadership election do not tally with the number actually cast in the first ballot last Tuesday. MPs were lavish with their pledges. I hear that Oliver Letwin, the endangered West Dorset MP and fugitive tax-cutter, promised his vote to three of the candidates. On the grounds, presumably, that he didn't know there were five. Eventually, he voted for Portillo, by proxy.

lain Duncan Smith may make a perfectly serviceable Euroloony leader of the Tories, but author he plainly ain't. The man who has done so much for the trilby industry has written a novel. It was rejected by several agents, until Guy Rose took it on. The manuscript is doing the rounds of publishers, usually to howls of derision. Evidently, it is a political thriller full of shooting and missiles, as may be expected from a shadow defence secretary. Maybe his newfound fame will persuade a publisher to take on this lemon.

A report on the general election reaches me from Gerry Collier, aka the hereditary peer Lord Monkswell. For the campaign in North Southwark and Bermondsey, a meeting was organised with an impressive line-up of speakers. "Unfortunately, the venue was outside the constituency," he records.

Paul Routledge is chief political commentator for the Mirror