Out of the frying pan into the fire - or, given that I have been the reluctant guest of the dieting Baron Cashcroft for over a week, out of the wok and into the self-immolation that is the current Tory party. At such times as this, and have the times ever been so this, it is vital to display judgement. Disappointingly, wisdom is in short supply in the higher echelons of the Party.

Gove is bright, Hague has his moments, but there is an almost total lack of gumption. Little wonder they were all running around like headless chickens after the broadcasting of When Gordo met Piers.

Back in April, I revealed in these pages that the entirely loathsome Morgan was discussing with Dave terms and conditions of a putative interview. A request that, while absurd, did have the plus that even a drunk Dick Cheney would look attractive when placed next to Morgan.

The negotiations, however, hit the buffers when Sam point-blank refused to be filmed sitting gurning in the audience while Dave discussed his, and their, sex life. The 21st-century Frost being adamant that "Tell me, are posh girls better in the sack?" was a legitimate area of inquiry when interviewing the next PM.

Anyhow, the Coulsons and Hiltons were hithering and thithering here, there and everywhere on the Monday morning. "He's proved he's a human being"; "That smile"; "The daughter's death stuff was sensational".

It was Coulson, inevitably, who, face contorted in thought, muttered: "What about deploying Clarkson?" A nuclear bombshell that had the team frothing at the prospect of Dave appearing in the "Star in a Reasonably Priced Car" slot, until research revealed that there would be no Top Gears before the election. Heavy was the consternation that descended on the assembled.

Happily, I was on hand to lift the mood by remarking that, on the rare occasions I found myself watching commercial television, the quality of the adverts was a pretty good guide to the worth of the programme. It was notable that the Morgan/ Brown effort had been studded by advertorials for the TV station itself. This is never a good sign (see also: the desperate Guardian, which is padded out with ads for the desperate Guardian). In short, no one was watching.

“Of course, they weren't," agreed the throng, consoled. Until the next day news broke that Morgan/Brown had secured more viewers than someone called Richard Madeley for his interview with Frorgan. Back came the gloom.