While his more senior colleagues in Whitehall and Washington understandably fall silent on the mounting deaths in Iraq, the Foreign Office minister Peter Hain has become a strangely aggressive voice in promoting the failed and lethal embargo. Ambitious apostates are like that.
Is London running red with raw, rampant socialism? Hardly. So what is Livingstone up to? Jackie Ashl
Singing carols among the local community at Christmas is the sort of pastime that exists in Hague and Blair fantasies of the perfect suburban voter lifestyle.
Obsessed by a fear of revolution, haunted by a collapse of faith, it yet nurtured great minds, great
In a few days, the poor thing will be gone, and the carpers won't have it to kick around any more. T
The Fabian Society went to a lot of trouble and laid on a seminar for Labour MPs on taxation. This was based on a report from the society's grandly titled Commission on Taxation and Citizenship, chaired by Lord Plant, and was held in Portcullis House, 50 yards from the Palace of Westminster.
The Evening Standard's Diary bash is usually a grand affair held at an imposing venue near Sloane Square in west London. This year, the venue changed and the invite had the legend: At Home "Earl Percy".
How I longed for an apostrophe in my youth. Whenever I was asked my name during my school years in Washington, I would watch a smile of recognition light up my interlocutor's face: "O'Done . . .
Please allow me to return to the issue of Damilola Taylor. As I write, a large number of police have been unable to find any one of the perpetrators. I have been down to the estate, and found little difficulty in soliciting information from all sorts, all ages and sizes.
I attended Peter Mandelson's Christmas drinks party where he was reported to have described George W Bush as a Sinn Fein sympathiser. Certainly, he spent much of his time talking about American politics, and very little talking about Northern Ireland, his titular responsibility.
The tabloid press are still trying to convince panicky, white, Middle England that "blacks will be a majority" at some invisible point in the future. Tales of immigrants coming here to steal our jobs, of bogus asylum-seekers scrounging our benefits, crop up again and again.
In 1984, Harrison Ford was being directed by Steven Spielberg in Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom at Elstree Studios on the edge of London. Stephen, an ailing boy, was invited to the set one day to watch the filming.
Fortunately, nobody rang to ask me where I was when I heard that John Lennon had been shot, because I haven't a clue. But I do remember an interview he recorded for Radio 1 a day or so before his death. He was asked a question about the death of Elvis.
The Home Secretary in his suit, fastidiously dodging the Coke tins and syringes as he visits the dismal sink estate, trading platitudes as he meets members of the so-called "community", is a familiar sight on the box and in the paper.
I have never in years been so angry, so turned inside out in my soul, as I have in the days following the death of a baby, in life's terms - Damilola Taylor. And I am concerned, too, about his assailants, who can hardly have formed the intent to kill.
My honeymoon was deliberately timed to coincide with Euro 2000. The idea being that, by placing us on a remote Caribbean island, my husband could avoid what he calls my "temporary Tourette's syndrome".
Now that the Tories have given up any idea of winning the election, attention is turning to the succession. No, not to WilIiam Hague. To Tony Blair.
An extraordinary idea is gaining ground in the north-east, according to the usual sources. Unhappy Labour folk plan to revive the Independent Labour Party, the original political instrument of socialists, and put up a candidate against Peter Mandelson in Hartlepool.
Not appearing on BBC2's Despatch Box due to pregnancy-related exhaustion is, in this ruthless media world, about as acceptable as missing a deadline due to, say, depression over stretch marks.
Do you want to hear something disgusting? Don't raise your hopes. This isn't the one about me and the goat. I'll save that for when I'm really desperate for material. In fact, to many British people, it will probably be heart-warming.
He thought that by buying a newspaper he'd make friends and win influence. But he didn't even have a
From the latest British Social Attitudes survey (just published by Sage), we learn that a significant number of people believe that ethnic minorities have been treated too kindly by the elite.
In reporting Bill Clinton's visit to Vietnam, the BBC's diplomatic correspondent declared that what the Vietnamese needed was "more economic growth". The question begged: why send a reporter all the way to Hanoi when the British ambassador would have happily propagated this line?
''Listen, kiddo, good news," began my agent in an unexpectedly excited voice. These days, he sounds barely civil when we speak: in marketing terms, a female client recovering from childbirth is about as useful as a grounded Concorde.
Robin Cook's ill-tempered attack on Gordon Brown - leaked authoritatively to the Sunday Torygraph, whatever the Foreign Secretary says by way of denial - is causing a bit of a stir.
For two years, I worked as the Daily Telegraph's television critic. I had to stay inside all day, glued to my armchair and the box.
Once a new art form is invented and established, an infrastructure develops to maintain it: a college to train people to do it, buildings dedicated to it, professional guilds, awards, grants. But, like anything else, art forms can become defunct.