I'm a huge admirer of Tony Blair but I come in for a good ticking-off from colleagues for a headline on a story about his property woes
The Verve's Richard Ashcroft, closing Glastonbury with a mesmerising performance of "Bitter Sweet Symphony", reminds his audience and the countless thousands, like myself, watching at home, that we have to go to work tomorrow "at a job you hate and for a boss you despise". Yikes, I think, I hope he's wrong about that. Because the next morning I have to get up at a time of day I thought existed only in hospitals to start work as the new editor of the Independent, following ten years of an extraordinary achievement by Simon Kelner in turning the paper into one of the most recognisable brands in journalism. It's a hard act to follow and I feel nervous, not least because I have spent the past six months "working from home" - in other words sitting on my arse and watching a lot of sport. But, despite my blind panic, I am made incredibly welcome by the hugely talented team at the Indie's offices on Canary Wharf. It's a lean and mean machine here. But with this indefatigable bunch of heroes, I know the only way is up.
Home truths
Our legal correspondent, Robert Verkaik, has got a terrific story. It looks like the Blairs might be landed in negative equity in some of their various homes. I'm a bit strapped for a headline, but we come up with . . . "At last some good news about house prices". I think it's a great joke, but the next morning in conference I come in for a good ticking-off from more responsible colleagues. It's ironic that someone like me, a huge admirer of Tony Blair (though I'm possibly the last man standing), should be rebuked for being snotty to the great man. The level of hostility that Blair aroused has always baffled me, though I must say his acquisition, seemingly overnight, of a property portfolio that would make the Sultan of Brunei blanch is a bit jaw-dropping. But I still think Blair will be seen as a great reforming prime minister who did much to make the country a better and more tolerant place. And he had to do it living next door to a maniac who spent most of his time trying to slit his throat. Metaphorically speaking, of course.
Uptown case
Like most papers, we're covering a juicy divorce case from Long Island featuring the former supermodel Christie Brinkley and the latest of her many husbands, an overly good-looking architect with, apparently, a passion for internet porn and sex with 18-year-olds. Brinkley appears to be totally tonto: why is she dragging all this stuff through court? God knows how she acquired one husband let alone four. She is, of course, the subject of one of the greatest pop songs, "Uptown Girl", by Billy Joel (husband number two). In the video, Billy's a car mechanic wielding a set of spanners, while his wife swans by in a convertible. But I prefer the Westlife version. In their vid the boys are tossing burgers in a fast-food joint, while a group of dinner-jacketed hoorays sit around being unpleasant. So, when Claudia Schiffer walks in, who does she go off with? Not the toffs, but the boys behind the counter. Fabulous stuff. But when I tell chums about my passion for Westlife, they look at me with a mixture of contempt and despair.
Treasure hunt
I take a short break from Canary Wharf to drop in on an Observer debate on civil liberties. My friend Henry Porter has done a brilliant job at the paper highlighting this soup of issues, from 42 days to ID cards, surveillance cameras, and so on. He's on one side along with David Davis; against them are Denis MacShane and David Aaronovitch, who's in feisty form and picking a fight with more or less everyone. Henry is described at one point as a national treasure, which puts him in the same bracket as, well, how about Elton John, Bobby Charlton and Judi Dench? Well done, Henry!
Exit line
The last time the former Yugoslav town of Novi Sad swam into my consciousness was about ten years ago, when it was being bombed to buggery during the Kosovo War. Now in Serbia, it's the home of the Exit music festival, and the destination for more or less all the school-leavers in the country, including my 18-year-old daughter and her friends. Novi Sad has also become one of the safest places in Europe. Unlike, sadly, London.
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