A mother and a minister at 30, could she one day be chancellor in a Gordon Brown government? Yvette
I feel about as sorry for Mary Archer as I do for Hillary Clinton and Christine Hamilton - that is, not a bit. All the rubbish that has been spouted about these women standing by their men is thoroughly misguided.
I looked around the other day and realised that encouragement had gone. Remember encouragement?
MPs keep looking for signs of tension in Tony Blair, and some are now convinced that he is feeling the strain. At a hitherto-undisclosed meeting in his room in the Commons, the great helmsman was not at his most self-assured.
The boy wonder's republican tract dazzled the <em>Sun</em> - but has anyone actually read it?
After years of uncertainty about the exact status I enjoy in the world of public speaking, it is vaguely gratifying to know that I may now scientifically regard myself as "fairly satisfactory".
Let's be a bit serious just for a moment. The royal baby is welcome. Bringing the next generation into the world is our greatest responsibility - and joy. But let's not get carried away with it, either.
Ten am. 12st 8lb, alcohol units 0, cigarettes 0, calories 357 (according to the outside of the porridge packet).
Don't worry. This isn't going to be another Bridget Jones parody. More a howl of pain.
Steve Bell's Guardian cartoon of Ken Livingstone disporting himself before Tony Blair while Blairite functionaries, their faces as death masks, shove a red rose up his rear, was all that needed to be said.
According to the Mirror, the most popular weekly journal in Trinidad and Tobago, the prime minister of that country, Basdeo Panday, recently addressed a huge crowd at a gathering to celebrate the Diwali festival. (More than half of Trinidad's population originated in India.)
I was absolutely flabbergasted by an article written by Denis O'Connor, assistant commissioner of Metropolitan Police, in the London Evening Standard. O'Connor is a fine man, a clear thinker and an asset to modern policing. There is none better.
The people's game has become the acid test of political virtue, the passport to a cabinet post, the
Just when I thought that my recent visits to the osteopath had got my body back into working order for the long winter, I find myself sitting on a stool in the kitchen at 3am wondering whether I'll ever again be able to manage a proper night's sleep.
Gerry Sutcliffe, the Labour whip and captain of the Commons football team, was mysteriously paged during the mayoralty fix by Jim Fitzpatrick MP, chairman of the London Labour Party. "Can't play today," the message ran.
After Lord Byron's death, his old lawyer wrote to a mutual friend telling him a "singular fact" about Byron's life which was "scarcely fit for narration".
Frank Dobson's campaign for mayor of London is not going well. A summer poll showed him lagging behind his opponents in terms of his "recognition factor". A piece in London's Evening Standard revealed that his campaign had used official Labour Party premises and money.
I've been feeling intense rages recently, the kind that make you feel as if internal organs are haemorrhaging and the only way that you can stop them is by punching a wall. Of course, I don't actually punch a wall. That would hurt. But you know the feeling.
The smell rising from the London mayoralty mess gets ranker by the day.
The Guardian has proclaimed ours the American century. "Like it or not, we are all Yankees now," it trumpeted the other day, going on to explain how US technology, popular culture and military might have colonised the globe.
Channel Four launched its winter season last Wednesday and highlighted a documentary series, White Tribe, which I wrote and presented, to be broadcast in early January.
Once hailed as a Tory prodigy, the shadow chancellor is now the invisible man of politics. Francis M
As we passed yet another anonymous hotel flying the familiar ten top tourist flags, my driver asked if I'd even been to Galway before.
Kosovo is today's slow news. Slow news is news that is ignored or minimised. It is a highly effective, though generally unrecognised, form of censorship in democracies.
She was just 34 years old, lithe and handsome. I had met her some years ago in Manchester, at Granada studios, feeling her way to a career in television. She wasn't born to it. I guess no one is. She would have had to work harder than most in order to be successful.
In EastEnders recently, Mel asked Dr Fonseca a direct question. "Are you gay?" "Yes," he said. "Good," she replied, and, er . . . that was it. It did not bother her. The good doctor has now only to tell the rest of Albert Square and hope for as nonchalant a response.
I sat on the edge of Mike's bed in the Whittington Hospital on Monday and tried to think of what to say.
On the face of things, the drive against the forces of conservatism goes on relentlessly. Doctors, teachers and every other public-service employee can expect no mercy. But, inside No 10, there are theological-style doubts.
I recently got into a conversation with members of my family about names. Somebody asked what names we would choose for ourselves. Amazingly it turned out that everybody had one, secretly tucked away.
"Fasten your seat belts, folks. This is going to be a bumpy ride." Of late, those pilot's words have been crackling non-stop over the tannoy in the new Labour jet.
I remember when the first countryside march arrived in central London, I thought it was a joke.