A sideways look at life in the Westminster Village

Whitehall thoughts are turning to the tricksy issue of the outgoing premier's resignation honours. With gags, injunctions, emails and denials spicing up Inspector Knacker's inquiries, a cabinet minister of relative probity whispered that Tony Blair's goodbye gongs will be the most closely scrutinised since Harold Wilson's Lavender List. Charges or not, it would be somewhat unseemly to knight "Sir" Jonathan Powell or make Ruth Turner a dame - unless he finds her a job in panto. One blameless name in the frame, however, is that of the former gatekeeper Anji Hunter. Indeed, word is that her significant other, the Sky political word mountain Adam Boulton, idly checked if he'd remain a mere Mister, should his wife become a Lady.

This I wouldn't have believed were it not for my own eyes: a chinless wonder playing Jeeves to Druggie Dave's Bertie Wooster. The chap sheltered in the shadow of Big Ben with an unfurled large green umbrella to jump out and offer Cameron protection from the rain when he puffed in to the Commons. The absurdity of such forelock-tugging was heightened by the clear evidence that the cyclist - a leader Mad Maggie might dismiss as a Tory wet - was already soaked. Say what you like about these toffs, but they certainly know how to demand deference.

The Secretary of State for Toil and Sweat, John Hutton, fell victim to a Fagan, the rogue picketing the minister's pocket in either Westminster Station or - shock, horror - the Mock Gothic Fun Palace. Hutton's walletless plight failed to elicit much sympathy from hard-hearted backbenchers. Several troglodytes in Strangers' cried it was rough justice, declaring that if Hutton wishes to turn the clock back on welfare to the Victorian era then he must expect 19th-century levels of street crime.

A snub at the Gay Hussar eatery to prove that, three decades on from the 1970s Labour riot, the Michael Foot-Tony Benn feud is as fresh as the chilled cherry soup. Foot had booked a table downstairs for luncheon, Benn the Tom Driberg memorial suite upstairs. As Benn departed, he appeared to look the other way deliberately to avoid setting eyes on Comrade Foot. One of Footie's luncheon companions, a feisty soul, put the snub down to Benn, 81, knowing he can't be Britain's greatest living socialist while Footie, 93, is still alive. Blair and Big Gordie could learn a thing or two about hate from their elders and bitterers.

Sticking with the Benns for a moment, Tony's son Hilary is even more of a chip off the old block than we at first suspected. Cabinet colleagues believe Benn Jr is keeping a diary just like his dad, who is watching in awe as the International Development Secretary jots down copious notes every Thursday morning. If he isn't contemplating a future publishing deal, he must have a terrible memory.

I met a cheeky girl the other night, the Transylvanian singer stepping out with the Libido Democrat Lembit Öpik. He was parading his trophy girlfriend in the Commons and for one moment I thought of greeting her by saying: "Touch my bum." That's a line from her single, and she's probably heard it quoted back many times, probably by the Libido Democrat.

Kevin Maguire is associate editor (politics) of the Daily Mirror

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