The celebrity shrink writes beautiful prose, enjoys the acclaim of the stars - but has he ever helpe
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.
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.
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.
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.
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
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".
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.
Men turned it into an extreme free market society; now, women are trying to clear up the mess. New Z
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.
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.
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.
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.