Since I wrote in these pages about the Ant and Dec quality of the David and George show, the notion has taken hold that we are carrying one lightweight too many

The beast is back

We need to talk about David. And I use the full name advisedly because, as a mark of the seriousness of the times, the leader-in-waiting is once again to be known by his proper name. The "Dave" bit was always a sham, concocted by Osborne because he thought that Dave and George, with its echoes of Tony and Gordon, had a populist ring.

Now, however, the Policy Exchange is recommending strongly that we "go with David". (That they have nothing better to do is either a sign of us being so far ahead that we can coast, or so far adrift that we are toast.) Their think-tanking, such as it is, is that two-syllable first names play better with the wider electorate (Harold, Maggie and, now, David) than monosyllabic ones (John and the dreaded Ted). The reasoning may be specious, but there is no arguing with the ends. You will hear no more of "Dave" from me.

Even this "policy initiative", however, was overshadowed by the return of the Beast. While David and the 1st XI were on a country-house weekend, and Alan Duncan and the 2nd XI were away skiing, and Dominic Grieve was at home with his stamp collection, I was dispatched on an impromptu bird-watching holiday.

It was entirely my own fault. Since I wrote in these pages about the Ant and Dec quality of the David and George show, the notion has taken hold that we are carrying one lightweight too many - not a happy position when it is all hands to the pump. So it was that, having identified the weakness, I was asked by David to rectify it.

"Not a problem," I replied. "I'll give John Redwood a call." "No, no, GD," said Dave (as he then was), "you'll go straight to Panama."

Fortunately, my target is as well known in Central America as he is in the United Kingdom and I only had to say "fat bloke, Hush Puppies, cigar" at the taxi rank and I was engulfed with a volley of "Señor Ken, he my friend" and taken à toute vitesse to the Gamboa Rainforest Resort. Given his reputation for being a man of the people, you might have expected Clarke to be slumming it with some Amazonian tribe in makeshift huts. Instead, he went for the oversized room, three restaurants, sparkling swimming pool, state-of-the-art spa option.

That the resort was less than 20 miles from the airport was also to type. As Norman Tebbit had said to me on New Year's Eve: "It's not just Clarke's politics that make me want to throw up, it's that he's lazy with it." A more adventurous man might have gone further into the rainforest in his search of the Harpy Eagle; this friend of Big Tobacco was happy to stay in the smoking lounge.

All that said, Ken proved to be quite convivial, particularly as we stayed clear of Europe and jazz. No one in Panama had the faintest interest in the former and the appearance after dinner in the Los Lagartos restaurant of Central America's foremost Dave Brubeck Quartet tribute band scotched any ambitions of exploring the "local jazz scene".

Given our differences, we rubbed along surprisingly well. I was half-minded to return with a favourable report.

However, as we smoked a final cigar in Los Lagartos and looked out over Panama Canal, Ken said, "What about a hung parliament, GD?"

"We've a double-digit lead. There'll be no hung parliament."

"Maybe," he said.

Finally, his real plan became apparent. The vote split. The politicking begins. A Cable-Clarke alliance is formed to save the nation. The Fat Man actually thinks he can still be Prime Minister.

Preposterous, of course. We need a double-syllable leader and the country isn't ready for a Kenny . . . but a Vincent Cable and a Kenneth Clarke?

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