The Ministry of Defence has long been regarded as a pimp for the arms industry in Britain.
The strategy is confused. Difficult decisions are being ducked. The directors are at each other's throats. Such is my end-of-year assessment of NewWorldOrder plc, the company briefly branded as ThirdWay.com, led by T Blair.
Since 11 September, the "war on terrorism" has provided a pretext for the rich countries, led by the United States, to further their dominance over world affairs.
I can't remember a time when issues of policing were so heavily on the Home Office agenda. The Home Secretary, David Blunkett, is posing as the ultimate reformer.
David Blunkett regards critics of his anti-terrorism bill, which makes Draco look like Mr Chips, as "naive". He also dismisses the home affairs correspondents of the national press as "negative". He has deigned to meet them only twice since becoming Home Secretary.
Rupert Murdoch predicted that, in the 21st century, only one newspaper would survive in each market sector in Britain: the Sun (red-top market), the Daily Mail (mid-market) and you can guess which paper (broadsheet).
No matter what politicians say about the need for them, anti-terror laws hardly ever work. They normally decrease the civil liberties that they are designed to protect and, as was the case in Northern Ireland, give people another reason for joining terrorist organisations.
Last week, a group of pro-Palestinian activists met at "ArRum" in Clerkenwell. Sophia Desai, a lobbyist for Green Ribbon, the Muslim human rights organisation, welcomed me to "the Arab Groucho Club".
Our Man of the Year is a super-rich celeb who claims to know what the people want: the transient fam
Enron was hubris incorporated. It christened itself "the world's leading company" and it stomped through the capital cities of the world, extolling the virtues of liberalised energy markets.
The collective mid-life crisis experienced by the executives on our national newspapers last week was almost palpable. With the death of the former Beatle George Harrison, we witnessed these baby boomers struggling to come to terms with their own mortality.
Labour backbenchers with a clear view of the top of lain Duncan Smith's head during Prime Minister's Questions insist that his dome has a cosmetic cover of matt make-up. "It doesn't shine, unlike William Hague's," one confides.
"Strangers are just friends we haven't met yet": a treacly Americanism that no longer holds sway in our city centre, where strangers, too, are separated into classes, and the chances are that a modern Samaritan would be more likely to cross the road to help if the victim were dressed in Armani r
One evening last week, just out of the barber's and on my way to the pub, I was trotting through one of Brixton's darker alleyways. A group of young men stood lazily under a street light. As I approached, one left the pack and crossed the road.
The Observer last weekend carried a long article - part of an entire supplement on race - by Diran Adebayo, a young black novelist of Nigerian descent. Adebayo confessed that he is confused. I do not see why.
Open letter to Greg Dyke
Delighted to hear that your six-month review of the BBC's "worthy but dull" (your words not mine) political programming has come to an end, which will no doubt also be the fate of some of your shows. And not before time.
Britain's record for arming dictators, political psychopaths and murderous bastards is well known and long established. Basically, if you can sit through a Rorschach test and see butchered corpses in every card held up, Britain will sell you weapons.
A colleague asked if I would like to join an exclusive tour around the "Black Museum" at New Scotland Yard, and the word "yes" fell from my lips, despite my being in the dark as to what a "black" museum was.
Is this the first Zinoviev e-mail? Conservative officials are bleating that the electronic letter allegedly sent by their chairman, David Davis, to the Ipswich Tories, saying that the by-election there would be a test of lain Duncan Smith's leadership, is a fake.
Why was Derek Wanless the Treasury's ideal candidate to write a report on the chronic underfunding of the health service, which paves the way for Labour's first serious raid on the piggy banks of Middle England?
Earlier this month, the front page of the Trinidad and Tobago Mirror - in which I once had a column titled "Without Malice" - was headlined "Join the Jihad". It had a huge picture of Hasan Anyabwile, described as a former head of security for the Islamic group Jamaat al-Muslimeen.
Reading about David Yelland, the editor of the Sun, recently, you could be forgiven for thinking that the left-wing press, and some of the right, had discovered a previously unknown, bald, beardless Bin Laden lieutenant.
Further intelligence from the Anji Hunter front. The word at Westminster now is that Tony Blair's principal private aide quit her post because she knows that the Prime Minister proposes to stand down sooner rather than later.
Cyberspace is, to coin an old-fashioned phrase, "no place for a lady". Behind the thin veneer of science, entertainment and shopping online, there hides a clandestine world of compulsive hedonism and crass sexism.
The price of a cup of coffee at the Sheraton, Doha, is $10. It is a classic case of short-term profit maximisation at the cost of potential long-term damage to the Sheraton brand.
While the bombs fall on Afghanistan, unnoticed dirty work is afoot in Gibraltar. The Foreign Office is secretly cooking up a deal with Madrid for the future of the Rock, and Jack Straw is too busy reliving the 1930s to bother with the issue.
The moment has come to think the unthinkable. Well, actually, the moment came when I was lying in bed this week listening to the Today programme.
He wants the press shackled and the Lords turned into a selectocracy. Who can stop the chief of Tony
For those of you who regard yourselves as being on the left, there is a word with which you might not be too familiar, and that word is "victory". The left is accustomed to noble defeats.
Every time a character in Snatch repeated the film's catchphrase, "I fuckin' 'ate pykies", Tim, sitting next to me, gasped with mirth. "Me too, me too," he tittered.