The earth moved for me. Will it for Gordon?

I see great qualities in Gordon Brown. Patience, for one. Imagine waiting ten years to have a go at being prime minister. If I were Gordon Brown I’d have given up yonks ago and gone for a walk in the Highlands. I don’t do waiting. If there’s more than two people in the supermarket queue I abandon my trolley and go home hungry. Friends have about five seconds to answer the phone if they’re lucky enough to get a call from me, otherwise I hang up and call someone sprightlier. If I meet an attractive man in a bar I must have access to his genitals within 20 minutes or I glaze over.

Mind you, think of Prince Charles. Born to be king nearly 60 years ago, he must be thinking it's a mighty long time coming. Gone are the days when he'd look dashing in a crown, let's face it. Camilla got the game right: go off and have a jolly time while you're waiting for what you really want, then clear the boards, get your hair done and buy a posh hat fit for a duchess. Sorted. A triumphant coda to an already fulfilled life.

Gordon looks so pleased that his time has finally come. His smile seems to come from the heart. That unattractive tinge of envy that used to linger in his eyes has suddenly gone. He's beaming with anticipation and I share in his joy.

Why not? Until he actually becomes PM and does something frightful to make us all cross, he has my blessings. So far the only irritation is his curious method of inhaling where he drops his jaw and hungrily wolfs down the air, as if sucking on a hookah in the souks of Marrakesh. But compared to starting a war or flogging honours for cash, that's nothing. Breathing experts will be on hand to iron out that eccentricity, I dare say. Along with image consultants, voice coaches and stylists.

These are heady days. It’s hard to believe, I know, but I’m young enough to remember Margaret Thatcher before she was honey-haired and honey-voiced. She was grey and shrill before the make-over. Mark my words, the same will happen to Gordon Brown before our very eyes. He has already been seen wearing a pair of crumpled beige chinos and an open-necked shirt. I think it’s safe to say that he’ll be having a buzz cut, before being snapped grooving on down at a Justin Timberlake concert by

the time the week is out. If that doesn’t win over the British Public, nothing will.

And if none of this works, someone has already come up with the fantastic ruse of explaining away his lack of style by claiming that he is "all content". Whoever thought that one up could be the next Alastair Campbell. Unless, of course, it was Alastair Campbell.

I was in Kent having sex at the time of the earthquake. He’s good, I thought. I must remember to get his number. Unfortunately, I don’t speak Albanian. Then my mother called to check I wasn’t up to my neck in rubble. How nice, she said, for the people of Kent to be in the news for something other than armed robbery. But poor Folkestone. It couldn’t have happened to a drearier place. We must all do what we can to help. I, for one, am going on a sponsored holiday to the Caribbean.

Not really. I am off for a few weeks now, but please don't think that I'll be spreadeagled on a sunbed in St Lucia. Far from it. My novel is about to go off to the printers and I have a meeting with the libel lawyers that is scheduled to last three weeks.

My central character is a thinly disguised portrait of a Premiership footballer and the likelihood of him being involved in a gay orgy at the House of Lords in chapter three is being questioned. I might tone it down a bit and take out Lord Longford, but Black Rod is staying, as is a young Conservative's cameo role as a confused youth. It's what my public wants to read about. If footballers could read, it's what they'd want, too.

Post your comment

Please note: you will need to login or register before you can comment on the website