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).
He announced the date of the election. So is the <em>Sun</em>'s political editor now the most powerf
Men turned it into an extreme free market society; now, women are trying to clear up the mess. New Z
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.
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.
I have been trapped on my settee apart from the odd sortie into the light of day. Curtains drawn, essentials at the ready. I have been concentrating on Test cricket wherever possible.
These things have to be taken at face value, or not at all, but if my snout is to be believed, Cherie QC is pondering aloud why Tony doesn't go out and get himself a proper job that pays real money.
If the class war is over, as No 10 so keenly asserts (the bigger the middle class, the larger the landslide), then when was the last shot fired?
What do you think Britain is, in the global scheme of things? The world's oldest parliamentary democracy, an industrial giant, a successful economy . . .? No. It's Merry Olde England, it's the Changing of the Guard, Cotswold cottages and Wordsworth's lakes.
A very close relative met her judgement day over the weekend. A clubber in the dives of south London, she had made the move from a naive middle-class childhood, substantially educated, to the margins of grave criminality. She became a Yardie's moll without even knowing it.
Royal Air Force pilots have protested for the first time about their role in the bombing of Iraq.
Robert Harris was once a fan of Tony Blair. He even offered to use his millions made from smash-hit novels to buy the New Statesman from its current proprietor, the saintly Geoffrey Robinson, and turn it into the house magazine of the Blairistas.
Making sense of the misinformation surrounding immunisation seems to require a PhD in chemistry and weeks of research time. Having neither, my search for a reasoned and helpful debate started with my health visitor.
Thank God for Benji Fry. Soon, if he has his way, he will buy and destroy the Groucho Club as we know it.
On the sun-kissed beach, a blonde in a bikini walks hand in hand with her companion. Every now and then, the couple kiss and he fondles her. Both betray a hint of middle-aged spread, and she, with her leather tan and dyed hair, a touch of vulgarity.
His firm belief that bowling leagues can save democracy has taken America by storm. Now, No 10 is al
Just why did Tony Blair sack Mandy? The question is still being asked because the Hammond report - not a whitewash, more a vinyl-silk job - does not explain what happened.
Eminem, the white rap artist taking the world (and the NS Fantasy Politics game) by storm, is, according to a musician friend, just "another white mediocrity stealing from black culture".
Whatever sentimental attachments I have acquired in my 40 years in Britain are based in the West Country. Some 36 years ago, I was drawn in marriage to a young woman from that part of the world.
Lady Godiva, history relates, was the beauteous young wife of the Earl of Mercia.
We have just passed the second anniversary of the Macpherson report into police handling of the Stephen Lawrence murder. Much of the debate has been about its use of the term "institutional racism". I find that unfortunate.
One group attracted by the political possibilities of the foot-and-mouth crisis is the Labour whips' office. The whips have imposed fierce control orders on the movements of back-bench cattle in the run-up to the election.
Last week, the Campaign for Press and Broadcasting Freedom held a conference in central London about a threat to broadcasting that few people know about. Most of the participants were academics. Dorothy Byrne, the current affairs editor of Channel 4, came.
I've been following with interest the Mark Thomas (comic genius or annoying lefty?) debate, started by Mick Hume in the New Statesman Diary.
Not in my wildest and wackiest imaginings could I have conceived that, at the beginning of the 21st century, a boatload of wage slaves, packed shoulder to shoulder, covered in vomit and ankle-deep in shit, with women giving birth on board, would be discovered in the heart of Europe.
The French prime minister, once dismissed as an old left dinosaur, waits to avenge himself on the Th