At dinner Osborne placed me between Dominic Mohan and someone called Alan Davies

I have had the better of young Osborne recently, but he gained a measure of revenge at the dinner he hosted for the incoming Sun editor on bank holiday Monday. There was a time, not so long ago, when one would no more have dinner with the editor of the Sun than one would with one's newsagent, but perceptions have changed (in large part because of that buffoon MacKenzie and his assertion after the 1992 election that it was "the Sun wot won it"). Leaving aside the improbability of such a claim, it is a strange boast because this, need I say, was the election we did our best to lose. The party was tired. We had neither direction nor leadership. We needed five years of Kinnock fouling things up to restore a sense of purpose and refresh the team. In the event, we overestimated the Welshman.

Anyway, on Monday, Osborne placed me between Dominic Mohan and someone called Alan Davies. Correctly assuming that the man in the bad suit was from the Sun, I turned to the man with the bad haircut and, being polite, asked, "What do you do?"

“Very funny," he replied. Reader, I am not often stumped but . . . really. There was a period of silence during which I managed to put two and two together and work out that the Davies man must be one of those famous-for-being-famous types of whom George is so fond. I returned to the fray.
“It must be tough-going being a celebrity?"

And he was off. Celebrity wasn't a word he recognised. He preferred the term actor (fine by me). But, since I asked, yes it was tough, ****ing tough being recognised everywhere he went (if not by me). And one of the things that really got his barnet was people thinking Stephen Fry was cleverer than him (I could see this would be infuriating) when actually, thickos, all the answers were on the cards and people tend to forget that it was Alan Davies who was first to go on Twitter.

At which stage, I sought refuge with the editor of the Sun who, probably never having been to Notting Hill Gate before, and possibly never having been invited out to dinner, was staring at his pea soup like a rabbit frozen in headlights.

“Spoon," I suggested. "Cheers, mate," he responded, and tucked in. Back with Davies and fame and the difficulties of being a funny man, and what people like Stephen Fry didn't understand about people like Alan Davies . . .

At which stage, for my own, and his, sanity, I had to interrupt. "Known George long?" "George?" "George Osborne. Our host," I said, pointing to the end of the table. "Oh yeah, he's a big fan of my work on QI. He wants me to come out as a Tory. He thinks this would make a huge impact because of my once having been a famous lefty - "

“Like Stephen . . . Hawking?"

“If you say so. George thinks I'd be great doing the warm-up for David at a conference. Working a bit of the old Jonathan Creek magic, getting the blue rinses in a bit of a lather. I'm tempted. I mean, I think Dave's immense . . . doing some really exciting material . . ."

“But?"

“What if people think I'm only doing it to get back at Stephen Fry?"

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