Wine was guzzled and everyone at the party after the show was in a mischievous mood. But staggering from group to group (two glasses had done for me), I heard the same questions cropping up over and over again: "Where are they?" "Why isn't one of them here?"
Two political clowns, both members of the Tory party, have been occupying the stage for the past week or so: Lord (John) Taylor of Warwick and John Townend, MP for Yorkshire East. Their speciality is race relations.
After hearing Robin Cook's now infamous "chicken tikka masala" speech, I decided that my definition of hell would be seeing Cook make an acceptance speech for winning the Most Patronising Politician of the Year Award.
Whipped like curs to turn up for votes on the Finance Bill - the only bona fide piece of parliamentary business in this phoney election period - Labour backbenchers have little else to do but gossip about who's up and who's down.
A new study claims that aromatherapy (and by extension complementary medicine in general) has no inherent power to stimulate our mood or to heal us. Unless we want it to, that is.
If this country depended on the Commission for Racial Equality and the official political parties for its racial stability, we would be in the midst of the most awful internecine war.
The other day, I attended a conference at the University of Sussex on the "new imperialism". What was extraordinary was that it took place at all.
Whenever people ask the question "What can direct action actually achieve?", there is an instant answer - "Seattle" - or there has been ever since a mixed group of teamsters, anarchists and people dressed as turtles shut down the World Trade Organisation.
Forget about winning Hastings, this government needs to get into Annabel's nightclub to really be in power.
Let us rid society of genetic defects! As a battle cry, this one seems pretty irresistible. James Watson, the father of DNA science, delivered it in the Independent, where he called for the law on genetic cloning to be changed.
Just 40 years ago, aged 18, I arrived in the UK. I disembarked at Southampton on a cold spring day with the old colonial British passport, free from the rigours of immigration. In those days, there were no national barriers between Trinidad and the UK. We were almost one colonial state.
The other day, the Martha Gellhorn Prize for Journalism was awarded in honour of the great American reporter who lived in this country until she died three years ago. Gellhorn adhered to no consensus of the kind that shapes and distorts so much journalism.
Alastair Campbell has apologised to Nick Robinson, the BBC political journalist and presenter of News 24's Straight Talk. Well, almost.
Throughout the land, Sophie Wessex is being branded a greedy and not very bright girl who "had it coming". But I'm inclined to feel a tiny bit sorry for her, now that she has been forced into purdah.
Meet the Organisation Kid. He is a workaholic, who has scheduled his life in order to squeeze the maximum study, work and exercise out of every single minute.
On the afternoon of 10 April 1981, 20 years ago, the Brixton riots began. "Riots" is not really the right word: this was an insurrection against the British police.
We are poised for the gunfight at Kensington Creek. Crawling west along Kensington High Street, in west London, is one Wyatt Earp (Superintendent Ali Dizaei, the Iranian cowboy).
The one constant in British foreign policy has been to support America in its more outrageous acts. From killing Gaddafi's adopted daughter to the air raids on a pharmaceutical factory in Sudan, Britain has supported the US.
Britain appears to be suffering from an inferiority complex. Articles on "Why Britain is the poor man of Europe" and "Why the French are superior to us in every way" have suddenly replaced pieces on "How those funny foreigners eat on the pavement and drink wine, not lager".
First thing MPs did, on hearing of the election delay, was give themselves an extra-long Easter holiday stretching over ten days, which most of them will turn into a long fortnight.
In and out of the homes of the liberal intelligentsia, you can hear the worried whispers: "He's got God." They are making out that Tony Blair has suddenly transformed himself into a holy-roller, at the helm of legions of white-hooded, barefooted flagellants.
The Odones come from Piedmont, the prosperous industrial area in northern Italy. Although my father worked in Rome, the family spent every holiday in Gamalero, the tiny village where our family house still stands. My brother and I spent all our summers with our great-aunts there.
The past few days have been rather hectic, and different from my usual, run-of-the-mill existence. I had to put my mind to David Dimbleby's Question Time on BBC Television.
At the recent British press awards, there was no prize for news management. This was a pity, as this branch of journalism has pulled off some great scoops lately, keeping important stories out of the news or shifting their emphasis away from the truth. Take the custard-pieing of Clare Short.
Last week, at a hacks' drink-up in an Italian restaurant, a well-connected and married political editor went all dewy-eyed the minute Alastair Campbell's name was mentioned. His bigness, his brute strength, the "twinkle in his eye" made her giggle and blush.
Evidence that plans for a 3 May poll are still in place came in the MPs' weekly whip's notice from Tommy McAvoy's den of brutality. It put backbenchers on alert for a three-line rolling whip from 3.30pm on Monday 2 April until Thursday, presumably to clear the legislative decks.