David Blackburn

Last night, at a secret location in the East End, Andy McNab addressed the London branch of the Royal Green Jackets Association, the body representing former members of the Rifles Regiment. McNab, a decorated Rifleman before he entered SAS folklore on the botched Bravo Two Zero mission, was drumming up support at a private bash for Care for Casualties, the regiment’s appeal to care for the families of its wounded and dead. The building was packed and donations flowed as if these were times of plenty. Care for Casualties has raised more than £1.5 million in the last two years. Such generosity is necessary. Since the regiment was re-formed in 2007, 61 Riflemen have been killed in action, leaving more than 40 wives or long-term girlfriends and 31 dependent children.

How much would you spend on a joke stocking-filler? £5 £10 £15? Not much more than that, surely, the ways things are at present. This vacuous question was prompted by yesterday’s astonishing news that Penguin has apparently paid Pippa Middleton a £400,000 advance for a book on party giving, working title: How to be the Perfect Party Hostess. The Guardian’s Alison Flood relates how there was a 'fierce bidding war by some of Britain’s largest publishers' over Middleton’s first book, with Random House overwhelmed by Penguin at the eleventh hour. As Flood says, publishers obviously have faith in Middleton’s winning smile, so much faith in fact that they expect her to sell glossy tomes.

Several usually eloquent pens spat venom last weekend. The spat between Niall Ferguson and Pankaj Mishra and the London Review of Books has escalated. You might recall that Ferguson and Mishra trading insults over the latter’s review of the former’s book Civilisation; their acrimony has been underscored by references to racism. Mishra has since said that Ferguson is not a racist; but the matter remains unresolved. Ferguson has had another letter of complaint published in the latest issue of the LRB. He opens by saying that Mishra is ‘in full and ignominious retreat’ and ends by writing, ‘I am still waiting for an apology, from both Pankaj Mishra and the editor who published his defamatory article.

What to do if you want to write a novel, but can’t find a plot (in the broadest sense of the term) around which to frame your ideas? Give up, is Margaret Atwood’s stark advice. There is no formula, she says, no easy answer to writing fiction. Most people have a creative spark, but not everyone has the intellect to discipline it. You either have it or you don’t. So much for the truism that everyone has at least one novel in them.

The Centre for Policy Studies hosted a party for Robin Harris earlier this evening, in honour of the publication of his one volume history of the Conservatives. Andrew Gimson reviewed the book in a recent issue of the Spectator and described it as ‘a marvel of concision, lucidity and scholarship’, plenty of eminent Tories agree. The CPS’ cramped offices were graced by Lord Lamont, Spectator select committee chairman of the year and Thatcher’s one time PPS John Whittingdale, and rising backbencher Jesse Norman — to name but a few. A smattering of ministers and government aides had also braved the thickening night to attend Harris’ shin-dig.

The Times has invited (£) everyone aged 16 and under to enter its Young Poet of the Year competition. The winning entry will be published in the newspaper. The Times also suggests (£) that competitors record YouTube videos of themselves declaiming their poems; selected entries will then be posted on the Times’ website. Inspiration is always hard to find, so the Times’ literary team has chosen (£) 30 poems that ‘everyone should know’. It’s a thoroughly predictable list. Who, for instance, doesn’t know ‘If’, ‘Kubla Khan’, ‘Funeral Blues, ‘The Owl and the Pussycat’ or ‘Jabberwocky’ (pictured)? But that's a minor quibble about what is a very good cause.

The Charlie Rose show is a cultural treasure, provided you ignore the host. In this instance, the late John Updike talks about the art of fiction from the perspective of the character he is “measured against”, Harry "Rabbit" Angstrom. In two and half minutes of candour, Updike reveals much about his method and how his most famous creation altered that method. Their relationship extended beyond the page and into Updike’s body and soul; he even admits that they transferred ailments. To all intents and purposes, Rabbit was real.

An anonymous buyer paid more than £7,000 at Sotheby’s last night for the late Nat Tate’s signature work, Bridge No.114. The money will go to the Artists’ General Benevolent Fund because, of course, Nat Tate never existed — he was the invention of the novelist William Boyd, who also painted the atrocious picture above.  Tate was conceived in 1998, at the height of the fever for the Young British Artists, when Boyd decided to play an intellectual game. He would test the credulity of the art world by writing the biography of a fictional artist. Boyd's imagination conjured an unappreciated American genius, whose work had been lost his contemporaries.