Diary

It has been a monarchical week — despite the election of a republican in Australia. I don’t just mean the Queen’s wedding anniversary, Ugandan tour, and the unveiling of the BBC’s famous TV series (of which more later). No, I’m thinking of the blossoming of the world’s more traditional monarchies — by which I mean the new hereditary-Leninist absolutist thrones that have sprung up around the world. The dynasty of President Assad the Second of Syria has received the boost of sending a delegation to America’s Annapolis conference. Azerbaijan’s President Aliev the Second and Congo’s Kabila the Second remain western favourites.

Istanbul I had a medical in Ankara not long ago. The doctor was a good sort, looked over her spectacles and read out the list: blood pressure all right, weight OK, cholesterol a little high, heart no problem, kidneys no problem Liver? No, nothing — but, Professor Stone, the lungs. Ah, I thought, at 66, and after nearly 50 years of heavy smoking. She told me that I have less lung capacity than would be usual for a man of my age. What is it? I asked. Seventy per cent. What is normal for a man of my age? A twinkle: 73. Thank the Lord for sensible doctors. Obviously if I smoke, there is a problem, but it will not be dispelled by finger-wagging.

When will the Americans withdraw? I don’t mind how long they stay in Mesopotamia but it’s high time they got out of Grosvenor Square. They’ve been muttering about relocating their embassy, but will it happen? Mayfair, my favourite English village, is ruined by their barricades, tank traps and miles of concrete Toblerone. Grosvenor Square and surrounding streets are becoming impenetrable and it looks as though there are going to be more hideous constructions and obstructions judging by the builders’ sheds and huts that are proliferating in this once tranquil square. Perhaps they should relocate to the old BBC Television Centre in Wood Lane. That is also an area more convenient for terrorists, who would find Mayfair a bit of a schlep.

Can anyone lend me quid or two? For the first time in my life I’m borrowing money. Mortgaging property. Scrabbling around for cash so I can live my lavish life-style. In case any of the firms I have accounts with are getting worried, please don’t. I have many, many, many millions of pounds in what is laughingly known as a rollover fund. Mine’s in Guernsey. This turns cash into shares but your money is only put on the money market so there’s no risk. Instead of interest you get extra shares. When you eventually sell you pay around 25 per cent tax because it’s reckoned you’re cashing part of the increase and part of what you originally put there.

Valhalla: Row H, Seat 9 It’s Wednesday, so it must be Rheingold. In an unlikely logistical triumph, I have managed to build my week around the second cycle of the Ring at the Royal Opera House — and quite something it is, too. As much as I might aspire to be George Bernard Shaw’s ‘Perfect Wagnerite’, I am still very much a novice in the world of neurotic gods, Niebelungs, giants, Walsungs, dragon music, stolen gold, sacred spears and Rhinemaidens. So the privilege of attending this amazing event — an unalloyed triumph for Tony Hall and his team at the ROH — feels all the greater (for expert opinion, see Michael Tanner’s review on page 75).

Christmas is coming. In fact, clock the mince pies on sale in M&S or the ruddy selection boxes in just about every store except Millets, and you could be forgiven for thinking it’s here already. Last week saw the annual headache that is the publication of the top ten list of ‘must-have’ Christmas toys, all likely to be requested by those short people that live in your house and all guaranteed to be out of stock by 30 October because of a failure by manufacturers to pre-empt demand. Apparently, this year’s Tracey Island is an equally hard-to-come-by Igglepiggle, a cuddly toy described as ‘energetic but vulnerable’. I know how it feels.

An internet executive taking to the streets of London without a BlackBerry is about as rare a sight as the Circle Line working normally. But sometimes you have to let go of the familiar to discover important home truths. So it was that at the end of the week the entire staff of Bebo’s headquarters in London was ordered to down tools, put on T-shirts emblazoned with the company logo and embark on a scavenger hunt across the capital. Away from the business of writing code and building a social network, we actually managed to bump into our social network in person.

Thank the Lord this will be the last time conference-goers have to endure the hellhole that calls itself Blackpool. The last time I stayed in a Blackpool hotel at a party conference was in the mid-1990s. I woke up at 2 a.m. on the first night covered in sweat. I hadn’t been indulging in any, er, nefarious activity and didn’t feel ill, but I eventually worked it out. The caring Blackpool hotel owner had thoughtfully put rubber incontinence sheets on the bed. Now I am sure some people would pay good money for that sort of thing, but I decided to check out the next morning.

It is unspeakably pretentious and whips some of my more fashion-conscious friends into a frenzy of wild-eyed insecurity. Have they been invited to the right parties? Does everyone else know which parties they chose to avoid? Fashion has no mercy apparently. London Fashion Week seems to have very little to do with fashion. There is a schedule of shows where young and suspiciously young-looking designers display their often unwearable cloths on dysentery-thin models. The Americans and the French don’t take it seriously. It ranks somewhere below Tokyo Fashion Week and above Kazakhstan Fashion Week, which by all accounts was a disaster. I went to the Luella party because Fashion Week mania is contagious and I got that ‘If I don’t go, I’ll be missing out’ feeling.

In the wake of my niece by marriage, Charlotte Mosley, queen of editors, I have done a few book signings lately in aid of The Mitfords: Letters Between Six Sisters. The reason for joining her is because I am a contributor to the book and am still alive, but alas my sisters are not. Charlotte is the only person who could have made this book. She has been part of the family since 1975, when she married Diana’s son Alexander, and has an enviable record as an editor with the best, shortest, sharpest, most accurate footnotes in the business. Who else would have waded through 12,000 letters to choose 600 covering 80 years? Who else could have been entrusted with intimate family relationships?

We took Alastair on holiday with us this year. Listened to his version of the Blair years in the car all the way to Biarritz — it was either him or French pop music. We took Alastair on holiday with us this year. Listened to his version of the Blair years in the car all the way to Biarritz — it was either him or French pop music. And no, unlike the average Travelodge customer, we didn’t leave him in the nearest service station for someone else to enjoy (is it just me, or does he have a crush on Bill Clinton?) Anyway, he was soon forgotten as we cycled 550 miles across France, taking in the Pyrenees and the Canal du Midi, fuelled by copious patisserie and the inevitable confit de canard. Once again, I was struck by the French antipathy towards capitalism.

Monday V. exciting. Was in charge of note-taking and smoothies at our Emergency Treachery-Management Meeting. We couldn’t decide what to do about Mr Mercer. Jed argued for something v unpleasant-sounding, which would involve us digging for a lot of complicated information, and would take ages. Was a bit worried as have dressage trials with Sesame tonight. Thankfully Mrs Spelperson persuaded everyone we had to lovebomb ‘dear old Paddy’, or he would go ‘all the way over’. It is very confusing: Mr Mercer was supposed to be much too right-wing for us when we sacked him for telling the truth about the army, and now he is making friends with Mr Brown who is very left-wing. I think.

My holiday reading list this year was both accidental and catholic. Usually I plan some months in advance, but this year I managed to wolf down my summer reading list before stepping on a plane. Consequently I went to bed with Joanna Trollope, woke up with Philip Roth, had an affair with Tom Bower’s Conrad Black biography (principally because I felt I had to) and spent several days by the pool in Banyuls as the cicadas blithely scratched away in the olive trees with Rupert Everett. I even spent an afternoon with James Patterson just to see what all the fuss is about. But what mostly captured my attention was castration.

‘I’m not Jewish, but I love Israel, and I try to holiday there every year.’ An uncontentious remark, surely, but it produces Batemanesque horror around the scrubbed-pine dining tables of London’s chattering classes. Arad, Israel ‘I’m not Jewish, but I love Israel, and I try to holiday there every year.’ An uncontentious remark, surely, but it produces Batemanesque horror around the scrubbed-pine dining tables of London’s chattering classes. You are more likely to boycott ‘apartheid Israel’ than visit it for pleasure — unless you are Jewish, Islamophobic or Paul Johnson.

It was the call that never came. For three hours last week, I sat with my hand hovering over the phone. I had been told that Bill Kenwright would be getting in touch between 3 p.m. and 6 p.m. Yes, the Bill Kenwright, theatreland big shot and chairman of Everton FC. This was exciting. Was I about to be hired for a cameo role in his West End production of Cabaret? Better still, perhaps, he fancied my prospects as a burly striker, playing at Goodison alongside Andy Johnson? Sadly not. The reason I had been put on red alert was that Kenwright and his inamorata, Jenny Seagrove, were panellists on the celebrity edition of Who Wants To Be a Millionaire — and Bill was keen that I should be his ‘phone-a-friend’.