Down Under with the Grasping One, the special circumstances of Kate Moss, and why Simon Jenkins is abandoning his organ
My mole in Perth (my mum, actually) tells me with undisguised glee that the organisers are still trying to flog tickets to the Cherie Blair trans-Australia charity show, which starts next Tuesday. Those ungrateful Antipodeans have not flocked to buy tickets at A$195 a go (about £80) as expected.
The gala charity dinner has been advertised non-stop since before Christmas. Now the modest advert is running in the sports pages of the West Australian. I don't wish to be unkind, but even with the most flattering photo (her mouth is shut), Cherie is not the stuff of your average red-blooded Aussie's dreams.
The ad reads: "Cherie Blair - lawyer, author, human rights advocate, mother of four and wife of the British Prime Minister. Who will you meet first?" Funny how Ms Booth reverts to her hubby's surname when she's trying to make a quick buck - sorry, make money for sick children.
Given that she won't talk about her husband, and that if you ask about the children she'll sue, it looks like my countrymen are in for a dull night.
The Sunday Times claims Cherie is poised to make £100,000 from the tour, despite it being billed as "a charity dinner to help the Children's Cancer Institute", which rather implies she is giving her services for free.
But at least the Grasping One is consistent. The only thing that would surprise any of us would be if this turned out not to be just another lucrative venture for the PM's wife.
It's election time and the Blairs can't get enough of kids. Yet the lesson for the Prime Minister after his outing on Channel 4's Tony and June show is: never work with children, animals and smart-arse, cute-arsed yoof presenters.
To call it an interview is to misuse the term. The luscious and lively June Sarpong no more interviewed the PM than a Qantas check-in girl interviews the traveller.
The most amusing parts of the show were the ad breaks. One was for stain removers - surely not implying our leader has any stains on his character, or anyone else's frock for that matter? Another said: "Don't cover up bad odours, remove them." Do they mean politicians stink, or just Tony?
It is heartening for any fortysomething woman to see the sisterhood come out so passionately against cosmetic surgery. Suzanne Moore, Janet Street-Porter and Fay Weldon in the Mail on Sunday, Independent on Sunday and Times respectively all lamented what Moore called "the Joan Rivers generation".
We women love to read these pieces, as they reinforce our sensible abhorrence of self-mutilation. We all want to believe, as Weldon put it, that "personality wins over looks, as surely as cut hair grows". Give me the Joanna Lumley generation any time.
I don't give a flying fig about the flying pigs, but the Fagin poster of Michael Howard was simply racist. The disingenuous denials and then begrudging withdrawal of this anti-Semitic poster shames a government that prides itself on its race record. It also throws into serious doubt the judgement of those behind the posters, notably Labour's campaign chiefs, Alan Milburn and Alastair Campbell.
Yes Gordon, there is a God.
Proof that the supermodel Kate Moss's new squeeze Pete Doherty is a heroin addict came as so little a surprise that the News of the World placed its exclusive pictures of him smoking the drug on page 13. The Sunday Mirror splashed its exclusive pictures of the same. Curious how a woman who won't get out of bed for less than £10,000 doesn't mind sharing it with a junkie, despite the fact that she lives with her two-year-old daughter. I can't imagine the social services taking such a benevolent view of the company she keeps if Moss, a millionaire, lived in a council flat instead of a palace.
Simon Jenkins, former editor of the Times and currently twice-weekly columnist, is abandoning his organ for the Guardian. His departure will be a bitter blow: he is one of readers' top three favourites, along with Matthew Parris and Libby Purves.
He is thought to be unhappy with the new compact, despite its circulation success. Even for those who like the tabloid size, it does rather shrink these giant writers. The pages are clumsy in design and often accidentally run across the gutter.
Poor old Matthew wrote a terrific piece at the weekend, but a thoughtless layout caused the headline to read something like this: "Soldier tells why Ruth Kelly's faith and her politics [of] Iraqis' abuse cannot be separated."
It made Kelly seem even more odd than she already appears. And that's some achievement.
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