I always find it harder to work on major projects in the summer, particularly when the weather's been as good as it was last week. Given the choice, I'd quite like to hibernate, but in summer rather than winter. Which set me thinking: there must be a word for that, and if hiber is Latin for winter (French hiver), there must be an equivalent for summer. French été, Latin estas . . . something like "estivate". I looked it up in the dictionary and, sure enough, there it was: "estivate: to spend the summer in a state of torpor". That fits the bill perfectly.

While estivating, I cannot help but notice the World Cup, and am as amused as anyone by the punditry. Hansen and Strachan; Wright and Shearer; Allardyce and Pearce. Tony Blair's appearance on the Radio 5 Live football phone-in show 606 leads me to wonder what it would be like if the political pundits and the football analysts swapped places. It's the same deal: former players pontificating on the shortcomings of their successors. Bring on Andrew Neil, Diane Abbott and Michael Portillo for the knock-out rounds, particularly if Spain are making one of their characteristic poor displays. Or, mutatis mutandis, why not have the views of Sam Allardyce and Ally McCoist on Labour's strike partnership? Is Blair the force he was, or is he still feeling the effects of that career-threatening injury sustained against Iraq? What of Gordon Brown and the broken metatarsal (stress-related) in his brain? Is it too early to bring him on, in a desperate attempt to inject a sense of urgency into the team? What will happen when Blunkett and Mandelson's red cards (the result of two yellows picked up in earlier rounds) are wiped off the slate for the closing stages? Is John "Bites Yer Legs" Reid a liability now he's moved from defence to attack? And then there's the wives. Is Cherie a Posh or a Coleen? Can't make up my mind on that one.

Appearing on a radio show with David Frost, I wonder aloud how he managed to get politicians on to his early programmes, having made his name hosting a satire show. He explains that, after initial difficulty, Ernest Marples (the man who gave us Premium Bonds, parking meters and seat belts) became the first (albeit former) minister to appear. Marples found himself waiting beside another guest on the programme. The minister politely asked someone what his fellow guest did. "Oh, him?" came the reply. "He plays the spoons."

David introduced me as "arch satirist", which is wrong on two counts: I hope I'm not arch, and I do not feel I qualify as a satirist. That's like describing Rolf Harris as an artist or David Cameron as a politician; it gives you some idea what I do, but a false impression of my ability. Better to sum it up as "topical comedy". Real satire is darker, more challenging, and probably too uncomfortable for a mainstream television audience.

We discuss how, far from being offended, politicians are quite flattered by caricatures. According to the Spitting Image producer John Lloyd, the Tebbits hated the show only because Norman had always fancied himself in a leather jacket, but was now prevented from buying one because it would look too much like his latex double.

A similar thing happened to me with the late Alan Clark. A version of the song "D'ye ken John Peel", entitled "D'ye ken Ken Clarke?", ended with the lines "I have to say you'd still pay the tax/Under Labour or Liberal Democrats/We may be a bunch of sleaze-ridden prats/But you know where you are with the Tories".

A week later Clark called me to ask if he could use the last two lines as his election slogan. "Yes, we're a bunch of shysters," he said, "but at least we don't pretend to be anything else." Watching the Labour malarkey over peerages, Prescott and the like, you have to say the old bugger had a point.

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