Yo, my name's Dave

Eat your heart out, Red Dave. Cameron's kitchen-sink home movie is outwatched and outscored by YouTube video spoofs from two of the outgoing premier Tony Blair's assassins. Imitation may be the sincerest form of flattery, but "Tommy-Gun" Watson and Siôn "Sniper" Simon are pulling in more viewers and winning higher approval ratings than the main man. Tommy-Gun, filmed washing dishes à la Red Dave, and Sniper, untruthfully declaring below a baseball cap "Yo, my name's Dave", were nevertheless advised by curmudgeonly colleagues not to give up their day jobs. Nothing, point out the Strangers' regulars, is funnier than an Old Etonian toff awarding his cleaner the day off to appear an Ordinary Joe.

Distressing news as MPs reassemble: the great young hope of the yellow peril, clean-cut thirtysomething Nick "Next Leader" Clegg, suffers from gout. With Lib Dem prospects hobbled by one stumbling leader, the thinking is that this party could be reluctant to limp on with another. Mr Next Leader finds unamusing both the pain and, I am told, the cheap cracks that he picked it up on the Euro gravy train when he was an MEP. Gout, however, is undoubtedly a political handicap. The (retired hurt) leadership hopeful Simon Hughes, by the way, met his match on holiday. He dined with Princess Pushy.

The union of the Grauniad's respectability and Daily Hate money to serialise David "Blubber" Blunkett's tear-jerker is considered the most unlikely alliance since the Molotov-Ribbentrop Pact. Blunker's willingness to sing for an extremely lavish supper contrasts unfavourably with Chris "Pants" Bryant's rejection of oodles of Hate on Sunday cash to dish the dirt on Blair. Bryant, by the way, tipped up at the first parliamentary Labour autumn party gathering to hear the plotters who brought down Blair denounced by loyalists. He's either very brave or more likely has a brass neck, if not much brass in his pocket.

Buzz, buzz. Word belatedly reaches your correspondent of a Blairite corporate PR's vibrating mobile, left on the bar of Manchester's Midland Hotel during the early hours of Labour's killathon. My nosy Brownite snout pressed the button to read a text, from a "Milburn", stating, "We don't need the woman's vote, she's fucking useless." Who could this "Milburn" be? Or, indeed, the disparaged "woman"? Clue to the latter: the message was sent the night of Cherie Blair's "that's a lie" suicide-bomber attack on Big Gordie. Clue to the former: Big Gordie's Blairite opponents, including those no longer in the cabinet, felt she'd blundered badly, playing into their enemy's hands.

Blairite eagerness for a leadership contest to beat Big Gordie stops, it seems, at the Sedgefield border. Constituency bigwigs are accused of seeking to fix the local succession in favour of Phil Wilson, their boss's former bag carrier. Vowing to unpick any stitch-up is Patrick McCourt, an Amicus official and local lad who led the successful campaign to puncture Blair's dream of privatising Sedgefield's council houses. When Blair goes, local feuding promises to be as uplifting as the national bloodletting.

The hunt is on for a presenter of Radio 4's Westminster Hour now Blairite commentator Andrew Rawnsley has left for the well-paid obscurity of Sunday-brunch telly. In a sign of the changing political landscape, the BBC is seeking a Cameroon-sounding voice.

Kevin Maguire is associate editor (politics) of the Daily Mirror