To Belize, yet again, for a spot of winter sun and some tactical chit-chat. The trip starts poorly when, despite repeated requests, Baron Cashcroft flat out declines to foot the bill for my upgrade. A poor lookout, given that he is our major donor and the owner of the airline. Times must be tough.

Not that you would know it from moseying around Cashcroft Towers, a serious blot on a landscape renowned throughout central America for its eyesores. Architecturally, it is a mess, some hybrid Gothic-art-deco nonsense which might best be termed School of CAD. And then there are the portraits. Having no relatives worthy of being portraited, the Baron has made up for this lack by commissioning a seemingly never-ending series of ever larger portraits of himself. The latest being a 35ft effort by a local artist which hangs oppressively in the Hall.

Frankly, it was a relief to escape into the Baron's Bunker where "the Great Man", in what can only be considered as a sign of having too much time on his hands, has set up a revolving electoral map of Britain, complete with the vote in every constituency and, in flashing dayglo, the amount of money he has already funnelled through it. Not my kind of thing at all, but, one imagines, vastly reassuring for the dozens of candidates who have already received six figures and counting.

Whatever keeps the donor happy is the golden rule of political fundraising, and so, with rictus grin firmly in place, I spent my mornings in the Bunker watching the Baron spread his assets; the afternoons, scarcely credibly, watching the Baron watching whales (a hobby he cannot even be fagged to go out to sea to pursue, contenting himself with standing on the headland and pointing occasionally and saying, "There she spouts, squire"); and the evenings watching the dieting Baron eat dinner. Slim pickings all round.

Cashcroft, despite appearances, is not a complete fool and, like me, is concerned that the backlash against the Party has begun before we
have had a single crack of the whip. Embarrassingly, we may have peaked before the start. As we flounder, Labour, in true spaghetti-western style, has been reassembling the old team in order to fight one last battle. Back into the fray come the Three Amigos, Blair, Mandelson and Campbell. Dave spouting hope cannot trump such an experienced outfit. But cold, hard cash is another matter entirely. We are in the Baron's hands. I will have to stay in Belize for as long as it takes.