Emily Maitlis

Hollywood The news cycle of a dead celebrity is a curious thing. One minute I am calmly watching Kelvin Mackenzie laying into Julia Goldsworthy about a rocking chair on Question Time, the next minute Michael Jackson is dead and I’m on a plane to LA. Los Angeles is a terrible place for a celebrity to die. It is an 11-hour flight and an eight-hour time difference, which naturally runs the risk of the celebrity being too dead by the time you land. Locked in airspace — in ignorance — you never really know how a story is playing out on the ground. 12 hours later We arrive to find the OMG! (ohmygod) text-speak of shock already gone, but the fans are out in full force. We head to Hollywood Boulevard where they cluster around his star on the walk of fame.

Emily Maitlis looks back on her worst moments in 2008, the anxiety she has caused her fans and her part in a ‘YouTube classic’ Looking back, I suppose you could say the low point of 2008 was when I accused the Chief Rabbi of leaving lewd and abusive messages on people’s answerphones. That’s the trouble with live TV. You think you’re saying one thing and you end up saying quite another. I was talking to the Conservative MP John Whittingdale on the BBC News Channel about the Jonathan Ross/Andrew Sachs affair, when all of a sudden I found — by way of the speed reader’s elision — I had put those now infamous remarks into the mouth of a certain (Sir) Jonathan Sacks. I haven’t heard from the Chief Rabbi.

In the end, it really was a fairytale. A story of hope conquering belief. The journey few believed would be completed. One man — aided by the most advanced viral campaign in history, and carried along on a mantra breathtaking in both its simplicity and its boldness: ‘Never gonna give you up never gonna let you down never gonna run around, desert you’. With that one lyric — indeed I am hard pushed to think of a single other — Rick Astley ran off with the much coveted MTV award for Best Ever Act, sending his reputation as ‘naff Eighties pop crooner’ into the stratosphere. His loyal fan base admitted to ‘rickrolling’ — a practice whereby millions of internet users were duped into voting for him by the click of a mouse.

Emily Maitlis reports from Libya on a land newly entranced by our brands — even M&S — where the West tolerates Gaddafi for fear of the insurgent alternative Strange things happen to countries hermetically sealed by their dictators. Under Hoxha, Albanians fell in love with Norman Wisdom. Under Lukashenko, the Belarusians have seen mandatory beauty contests nationwide, and as I arrive at the customs desk of Tripoli airport I realise that under Gaddafi, mirrored aviator sunglasses and big hair have become the de rigueur fashion statement among immigration officials. This is not the cool hand of viral marketing, but the unmistakable grip of a leader who believes imitation is the sincerest — indeed only — form of flattery.

Washington High tea with George Bush in the Oval Office. Polite but tough questioning on my book. He tells me how much he’s enjoyed reading it. Next stop, the wonderfully counter-counter-cultural bowling alley with Dick Cheney, flanked by Francis Fukuyama, author of The End of History. They tell me how much they’ve enjoyed my book. Paris Croque monsieur for 70 at the Elysée Palace with Nicolas Sarkozy. Nico tells me he’s only just put down my book. I tell him how much I’m enjoying his presidency. We part amicably. Afghanistan To the Tora Bora caves for mint tea with Bin Laden, author of 9/11, then off kite-flying with his deputy Ayman al-Zawahiri. They tell me they take issue with my thesis but have greatly enjoyed my book.

Tuesday:Television Society Awards. Grosvenor, Park Lane. Wore little white dress, big black bow, quite low neckline. Tripped over own handbag on way into hotel. Awkward frock moment. Think I got away with it. Not sure anyone noticed. Wednesday:Calls for more rainbows and fewer shark attacks in Lambeth. The council has come up with a New Inishativ, nicknamed — by me — Operation Crayon. They have asked the under-fives — by way of a letter home from nursery — to ‘draw improvements they would like to see made to the borough’. Astonishingly, their drawings did not focus principally on the spiralling costs of council tax nor the pitiful collection of litter.