Diary

In the build-up to the tenth anniversary of the EU referendum, we’ve heard lots of claims about Bregret. There are some Remain nostalgists who are convinced that, after a decade of listening to their wise counsel about how much better we’d be if we’d stayed in the glorious EU, those misled numpties who voted the wrong way must surely have changed their minds and be ready to slink back to Brussels. Recently, the Observer commissioned polling to prove the point. It’s true that rejoining attracted the largest single share, at 33 per cent. But the options for staying out of the EU, taken together, commanded a clear majority: 55 per cent. Mysteriously, the paper decided not to publish. Darn it, why does the public keep giving the wrong answer?

Although the past few footballing weeks have been dominated by the convulsive conclusion to Arsenal’s season – and the upcoming few will be dominated by the World Cup – I wonder if some of you might spare a thought for my own traumas north of the border. As a Celtic supporter, I’ve had one of the worst seasons imaginable. After years of victory in the relatively impoverished (and severely mocked) Scottish Premier League, my team has had one of their most disastrous stretches, knocked out embarrassingly early from all European competitions and then continually shamed and outperformed by a resurgent Hearts, who haven’t won the Scottish League since 1960.

I have been opening a play. It is called Allegra and is about a woman who is relentlessly happy. This is not typecasting. ‘Why do we actors have so much self-esteem and so little self-respect?’ demanded Edmund Kean in the eponymous play Kean,which I last saw in 1990. Funny, I never forgot that line. I’d been bobbing along merrily in rehearsals, learning, improving, rejecting and rejoicing. Now, suddenly, it was a technical rehearsal in a real theatre, the Brighton Royal, and there was a microphone taped under my wig, battery packs belted to my underwear – real orchestrations, quick-change shoes. My ancient make-up sticks must be laid out and lip and tongue exercises from my Lamda days, 60-odd years ago, must be performed.

Arsenal’s triumph in finally winning the Premier League again after 22 long, often eyeball-wrenchingly tortuous years has gone down like a Keir Starmer motivational ‘I’m not leaving!’ speech, which is ironic given the Prime Minister is an avid Gooner like me. It’s hard to understand why a club that boasts a fanbase including us, Jeremy Corbyn, Rwanda’s President Paul Kagame, the late Osama bin Laden and Prince Harry (whose matchday allegiance has followed a similar path to his royal duties, in that he never turns up) attracts such opprobrium that we were recently named the ‘most-hated supporters’ in the league. But as with Millwall in their hooligan heyday, if no one likes us, we don’t care.

If I were prime minister for a day (which is looking like an increasingly realistic prospect for all of us), one of my first acts would be to ban events being held on Monday nights. The first day of the week is always a jarring change of pace from the lazy joys of the weekend. I prefer my Monday evening to be a restful transition point into the rest of the week, like gradually dunking a Digestive into a mug of tea in order to get the right ratio of crunch to sogginess. You don’t want to hurl the whole biscuit in there at once. Alas, the British Book Awards held its ceremony on a Monday and, for the first time ever, decided to nominate me for a prize.

Since Victorian times, sandwich-board men proclaiming doom have been part of our urban street life, particularly in London. I’ve felt like a sandwich-board man lately, having warned endlessly in my weekly Telegraph column that Britain is heading for fiscal meltdown. In June 2024, just before Labour took office, I signalled that a government led by Keir Starmer ‘could soon face borrowing difficulties’. Six months later, I cautioned ‘we face a return to 1976 unless Labour changes course’ – recalling that 50 years ago, Britain was forced to declare itself insolvent and go to the International Monetary Fund for a bailout. It brings me no pleasure that many of the outcomes I warned of, to such derision, now dominate the news.

And so to the White House for a ringside seat at the Trump circus. Another assassination attempt on the President wasn’t going to stop the royal machine. After calls between Buckingham Palace, the West Wing and the secret service while the UK press pack nervously checked their phones mid-flight to Washington, praying for the British Airways wifi to hold, the King and Queen kept calm and carried on with their state visit. It was never in doubt. Despite the White House correspondents’ dinner shooting, there was too much fear behind Whitehall and Palace walls of disappointing the Donald to pull the plug. May I commend BA for its wifi and in-flight entertainment, which features The Royals, a lively podcast on the House of Windsor.

Going to the theatre is a joy. When you are a character on the stage, less so. Over the past couple of months, I have been depicted in two plays. Having worked for Murdoch for years, I clearly enjoy pain and so, at my own expense, I went to see both. First up was a one-man show called Monstering the Rocketman at the Arcola in Dalston, which detailed how the Sun (me!) had accused Elton John of being involved in rent boy sessions. Our source, it turned out, had sold us a pack of lies, made more painful by the fact that the news editor, the reporter and I spent 90 minutes cross-questioning this stoat to satisfy ourselves he was telling the truth. It’s easy to be misled.

A school in Greater Manchester has stripped 193 books from its library because they are ‘inappropriate’, liable to upset pupils and thus a safeguarding risk. Among the dangerously destabilising material: Michelle Obama’s memoir and George Orwell’s Nineteen Eighty-Four. Who was entrusted with identifying these literary IEDs? An over-zealous head? A prurient librarian? A demented child psychologist? Nope. A humble AI bot. While writing my latest novel, The Hawk Is Dead, much of which is set in Buckingham Palace, I asked ChatGPT to produce a simple floor plan. Not a tough assignment – much less taxing than diagnosing nearly 200 books as existential threats to adolescent wellbeing. It got the Palace’s orientation wrong. For more than 200 years, the East Wing has faced the Mall.

Elizabeth II was never particularly enthusiastic about birthdays. They were a good excuse for a parade or an honours list, but not a patch on a major wedding anniversary, let alone a jubilee. Those were a celebration of true dedication, not of mere longevity. Even so, were she still with us, the late Queen would have acknowledged that her centenary on Tuesday is a big deal. It would also have created a delightful conundrum for the Buckingham Palace anniversaries office, the department that sends out 100th-birthday congratulations from the sovereign. At the start of her reign, she was sending 385 of those each year across all her realms (by telegram). By the end, it was over 16,000 (by card).

I can’t resist a courtroom drama. Prince Harry vs the press, for example: journalists I admire on one side, aggrieved celebrities on the other. Among the usual suspects I have a fondness for Elizabeth Hurley. When I was editor of Tatler, she gamely posed for the cover in a satin gown in a breezy field with a friendly goat in tow, with a coverline assuring our readers that people had better sex in the country. The logic escapes me, but the issue sold extremely well. Trials can drag on, though. I was once sent to cover a libel trial: Imran Khan had accused two cricketers of ball-tampering. Hours passed as they fought about gravel, and I played noughts and crosses with the commentator Henry Blofeld.

To mark the celebration of the Annunciation (‘Lady Day’, 25 March), a friend sends me an image of her favourite picture of the angel’s appearance to the Virgin Mary – a painting by the African-American artist Henry Ossawa Tanner, who worked mostly in France in the first decades of the last century. Mary is a very young Middle Eastern peasant woman, shrinking into the rumpled sheets of a bed roughly screened off from a plain stone domestic interior, as a blinding pillar of light hovers in the foreground. As my friend said, it shows not the serenity of many images of the event, but an acute apprehensiveness. This may be good news but it is also, quite simply, terrifying. Nothing is going to be the same again. Sarah Mullally was installed as Archbishop of Canterbury on 25 March.

Following my appointment as shadow justice secretary, I was moved to a bigger office in parliament. Where once I enjoyed a tiny room directly above the chamber (perfect for rushing to votes), now I have a plush room much further away. It is directly above the irksome Steve Bray, who continues his noisy campaign against Brexit. Of course his anti-social behaviour should mean he is moved on by the police, but these days officers balance the public interest against Bray’s ‘rights’. I recently relied on some Anglo-Saxon vernacular to tell Bray what I thought of his protest, and realised afterwards in today’s upside-down world the police would probably finger my collar – not his. Opponents of Labour’s ‘Islamophobia’ definition warned it would stop us debating religious ideas.

‘Deranged conspiracy’. That’s the Sussexes’ verdict of Betrayal, my second blast at Harry and Meghan, after the serialisation was in the papers at the weekend. Naturally, I’m grateful. The book now ranks No. 1 on Amazon. My biography of Robert Maxwell also benefited from his endless writs. Similarly, Richard Branson sued twice to prevent publication. He lost and was denied the licence to run the National Lottery. The tycoon Tiny Rowland was more subtle and effective. ‘Bower’s book,’ he announced, ‘is boring. He’s missed all the good bits.’ That hurt. My new book exposes the vainglorious Duke and Duchess’s downwards spiral over the past five years towards an inglorious endgame. Dwindling fame and fortune is forcing them to revalidate their royal status.

Six people meet for a picnic on Richmond Green. They eat Popeyes chicken nuggets, Sainsbury’s sausage rolls, M&S sandwiches, Cadbury Mini Rolls and Walkers crisps. They drink a bottle of Pinot Grigio and several cans of Sol lager. How do I know? I’m no detective but they’ve made it easy for me. After they’ve finished, they’ve simply got up and left the bottles, wrappers, packages and paper plates on the grass, laid out like a meal on the Marie Celeste. There’s always been litter – Bill Bryson described it as ‘a long continuum of anti-social behaviour’ – but this is something different. It feels more like social anarchy, a total blankness. I can’t get my head around it.

Four weeks after I decided to upend my life by standing as the Reform UK candidate at the Gorton and Denton by-election, I was in the small living room of a constituent listening to Nigel Farage give a lecture on phaleristics – the study and collection of war medals. The poor chap whose home we were visiting had barely processed who was at his door before Nigel spotted a collection of medals over his shoulder and charged into his living room to give him chapter and verse. ‘This one’s from 1914! The British Expeditionary Force! Incredibly rare!’ I couldn’t help but notice that, despite his wild enthusiasm at the prospect of us winning one of Labour’s safest seats, he was even more thrilled by the medals. Then again, his ability to connect with ordinary people is unmatched.

Never one for introspection, Andrew Mountbatten-Windsor has still managed to provoke some searching questions about the institution he once served. For example, what constitutes a family if it is royal? Since Victorian times, parliament’s rulebook, Erskine May, has forbidden ‘reflections’ on ‘the conduct of the Sovereign, the heir to the throne, or other members of the royal family’ in debates. Following Lib Dem pressure, that rule has been rewritten by Mr Speaker, who has stated: ‘Because this now relates to a person who is not a member of the royal family, the situation is completely different.’ But in what way? Clarity is needed.

We always try to spend Valentine’s Day weekend in Paris. My wife has held on to a tiny apartment in the Latin quarter since a young age and it is the perfect pied-à-terre from which to venture into the best parts of the city, from St Germain to the Marais. First stop on the journey is the Eurostar lounge. I like to check on the availability of The Spectator on the shelves. When we acquired the magazine a little over a year ago there was no sign of it despite well-stocked supplies of Guardian Weekly and the New Statesman. Not good. That has now been sorted, and I was pleased to see a generous supply of the world’s oldest magazine.

Back in the mists, early 1980s I suppose, I was asked to decorate a penthouse apartment in London for a tycoon who collected large-scale contemporary American art. Decor done, art hung, the porter asked if he could show it to the prospective buyer of the same-layout penthouse next door, a member of the Gaddafi family attending university in London. ‘Sure,’ we said, and a young man in black robes arrived a bit later. He did a quick recce, approved, and said he wanted to have exactly the same decoration, including the art, and ready to move into in ten days. My team pulled together a pretty good replica while Tom Bell and I spent a weekend making the art. Fake Stellas glowed with colour, fake Rothkos brooded. We slashed fake Fontanas, cartooned fake Lichtensteins, popped fake Warhols.

‘The two enemies of human happiness are pain and boredom,’ espoused German philosopher Arthur Schopenhauer. Having spent the past fortnight in the grip of both, after fracturing my femur so disastrously it necessitated a total hip replacement, I can confirm he’s correct. And given I did it tripping in a hotel restaurant, I would add ‘shame’ to the list. The pain was excruciating; the shame even worse. (History will record that the Free Solo daredevil Alex Honnold successfully climbed the 508-metre Taipei 101 tower, without safety ropes, in the same week I failed to navigate a six-inch step.) But the boredom’s been stupefying.