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.
Thank God for Benji Fry. Soon, if he has his way, he will buy and destroy the Groucho Club as we know it.
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.
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.
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".
I've been following with interest the Mark Thomas (comic genius or annoying lefty?) debate, started by Mick Hume in the New Statesman Diary.
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.
A walk down Kilburn High Road this week reminded me of the real world out there, where not everyone pretends to watch Question Time as opposed to The Weakest Link, and where people spend more on their heating bills than on wine.
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
It looks like a plot, and it talks like a plot, so it must be a plot. "Friends" of Peter Mandelson have told their friends in the media that the redisgraced former Ulster secretary will "get" his tormentors.
What is it with all these awards ceremonies? Funniest Politician this, Worst-Dressed Pop Star that: there are now so many fatuous types of award, celebrating so many ridiculous "achievements", that even I have received one.
There was a little boy and a little boy was he.
He ran away to Scotland the people there to see.
He is a businessman with the common touch, a bully, a friend of Alastair Campbell and . . . the next
All that truckling to Buckingham Palace by new Labour, all that pretence of caring about Princess Diana, now proves to have been futile. The royals prefer the real thing.
Having turned down David Frost's offer to be featured on Through the Keyhole because an ad break lasts longer than it takes to look round my current flat, I am moving again. This has proved a difficult task, made more unpleasant by estate agents. Take one local agency.
Sun, sea and sex is not a bad formula to base your holiday on. Or a business empire. The late Gilbert Trigano made his fortune from the three S's with his Club Med holiday resorts.
The speculation among the heavy political pundits is that, by the time this issue of the NS reaches you, Keith Vaz will have disappeared into the cold, dark night.
Make of this what you will. A veteran Labour backbencher sallied forth to No 10 (don't lie, Downing Street children, I have the invitation card) for a glass or two - and was discreetly offered a peerage in return for his safe seat in the north of England.
What do the glamorous, celebrity-loving Peter Mandelson and that butch bully Alastair Campbell have in common, apart from closeness to Tony Blair? Well, both enjoy playing their public personas to the hilt.