Any other business

A new twist on an old favourite. Question: How many ministers/blondes/psychiatrists (feel free to fill in the social stereotype of your choice) does it take to change an old-fashioned 100-watt light bulb? Answer: None. From 1 September the joke will have become redundant due to the fact there won’t be any traditional light bulbs left to change. The European Union has banned the sale of incandescent bulbs in order to slash energy bills and cut carbon dioxide emissions. This is an act which will force us all to become eco-warriors or, if we don’t comply, law-breakers. Under the European Directive, from next week manufacturers in Europe are legally not allowed to sell the banned bulbs to retailers.

If you’re spending this weekend listening to music in a muddy field, you’re part of a significant economic trend, says Janice Warman: festivals are Britain’s boom sector There was no doubt about it. I was irretrievably stuck. Each boot was lapped by a shining circle of mud which, as I tried to move, made ominous sucking noises and seemed to increase its grip. I turned in desperation and appealed to a tall man behind me. ‘Can you help me please?’ He looked down at me. ‘Just a minute — I’ve got to take this call.’ He turned away. But moments later I was free: he and another festival-goer had lifted me clear of my Hunters, retrieved them and put me back in them. Luckily most Brits don’t seem to mind a bit of mud.

Deep in the Dordogne, I can’t find a damned thing to be miserable about Sometimes in this job you feel you’re right in the thick of it, setting agendas, kicking butt, lobbing firecrackers into the national debate. Other times you might as well be some no-mates blogger in the middle of the night. Here I was at the start of August, listing positive economic signals that justified a mood of mild optimism as we set off for our holidays, and declaring that worries about an extended recession should be left for September. And what happens? Did postal disruptions prevent that issue reaching Threadneedle Street?

My abiding Bradford memory is of the aftermath of the terrible fire at the Valley Parade football ground in May 1985, which claimed 56 lives. As a young reporter on a Yorkshire paper, I had been sent to the scene to write what was then quaintly called a colour piece. There was precious little colour anywhere when I arrived. The air was thick with the stale stench of smoke and the atmosphere laden with grief. When a hardened Fleet Street hack tried to light his cigarette outside the charred ground, two residents of Manningham Lane screamed at him. In a nearby pub, seemingly oblivious to the tragedy, an ageing stripper danced to Ruby Turner’s ‘Move Closer’ as sweaty businessmen leered at her and gulped their lunchtime beer. This was a city fractured and forlorn.

James Doran says the instant success of America’s car scrappage scheme merely highlights the failures of the rest of Obama’s $787 billion economic stimulus package America’s tortured love affair with the gas-guzzler is finally drawing to a close thanks to the Obama administration’s so-called ‘Cash for Clunkers’ scheme. By promising anyone with a clapped-out old motor as much as $4,500 so long as they spend the rebate on a shiny new fuel-efficient model, Obama has managed to do what a doubling of the price of petrol could not.

‘Last chance for Krakow. Krakow only. Sir, I am not interested in Belfast. When I DECIDE to be interested in Belfast I will inform you. Until then wait your turn and rejoin the queue. Step aside Madam, if you will.’ Robert pointed to a woman with two small children. ‘You’re not listening. I am aware of the fact everyone here wants to board. I understand your concerns, but I am currently processing Krakow. Krakow ONLY. Now, step back behind the barrier and wait patiently.’ Poor guy. He must have known he was asking the impossible. Robert was Ryanair’s Messenger of Doom — a role I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy. Looking down at his clipboard and wiping the sweat from his brow he barked out another destination I’d never heard of.

Corporate titan turned London healthcare chief Sir Richard Sykes faces his toughest challenge yet, says Judi Bevan — but he’s full of praise for the handling of swine flu Sir Richard Sykes darts across the hallway of the Athenaeum club to greet me. Lightly tanned, thin as a whippet, the former head of GlaxoSmithKline and Imperial College cuts a dash in pinstripes and a tie the colour of crushed raspberries. Sykes is to ‘change czars’ what Roger Federer is to tennis. In both his former roles he radically changed the institutions he headed. Through the takeover of Wellcome, followed by merger with SmithKline Beecham, he transformed middleweight Glaxo into GlaxoSmithKline, the third largest pharmaceutical group in the world.

Sir Fred’s return is one more sign that the storms are over — at least for now Of course it’s too early to declare an end to the economic crisis — who knows what storms the Gods have in store for us in the autumn, not to mention swine flu — but I think we can be forgiven for feeling relatively upbeat as we head into the holiday season. The FTSE 100 index has just enjoyed one of its longest unbroken rallies of modern times. The price of copper, a useful predictor of manufacturing activity several months ahead, has been rising since February. The price of oil is more volatile than we’d prefer it to be, but as George Trefgarne explained here recently, there’s plenty more in the ground. The 0.

All right, so perhaps I was a mite distracted. I was busy stirring a beetroot risotto, the television was on in the background, I had the telephone tucked under my chin and was also trying to figure out the solution to 11 down in the crossword (‘desire returns to writer covering S&M, spellbound’ in ten letters), but all these vaguely mitigating circumstances don’t really excuse my outburst. ‘Goodbye. Thank you. September 24th at 10.30’. I said. And then just before I hung up and added more stock to the pot I inexplicably blurted out the codicil ‘love you’. Just like that.

George Trefgarne says there’s no need to worry about recent dramatic swings in oil prices: despite Opec production cuts, there’s ample supply for a new era of cheap energy It must be quite boring to be a crewman on the curiously named Front Queen, an oil tanker reportedly moored off the sweltering coast of Malta. This vessel was chartered a couple of weeks ago by one of the few healthy banks in the world, JPMorgan Chase, in order to sit in the baking sun of the Mediterranean, filled with heating oil, in the hope that the price goes up. The Front Queen is not alone. There is currently about 70 million barrels’ worth of crude, or nearly one day’s global production, bobbing about in ships around the world.

When the solemn temples are dissolving, why are they still offering giant salaries? I had the pleasure of giving a prize-giving speech on Saturday, at a lovely school called Fyling Hall which looks out over the North Sea near Whitby. I have developed a theme which seems to go down well on these occasions: treasure your long-term friendships, I advise the leavers, because the people with whom you walk life’s path will turn out to be far more reliable than the institutions along the way, which look so permanent but turn out not to be: cue quote from The Tempest about gorgeous palaces and solemn temples dissolving.

When I was young, being given ‘options’ was a treat. When I was young, being given ‘options’ was a treat. It felt empowering — as though I were in complete control of my destiny. ‘Do you want to play Monopoly or Careers?’ ‘You have a choice — a Zoom or a Fab, what will it be?’ ‘If you have a bath now and get ready for bed you can stay up and watch either Top of the Pops or The Persuaders — you decide.’ In those halcyon, carefree, pre-health and safety days both choices were always presented as being agonisingly fabulous, and much of the thrill derived from the deliberation itself. Now that I’m an adult I’ve done a complete volte-face on options. I loathe them.