Love spesh: Is it The Spectator's Jeremy Clarke + Farah 'the bird' Damji?

Farah Damji

I may have a heart of flint yet even I, in the right circumstances, can turn into a channel for the late Dame Barbara Cartland and bat my false, matted eyelashes while posing as a fan of romantic nougat.

I turn to the Spectator's riveting Low Life column in the latest issue and learn that its author Jeremy Clarke - described as 'The Evelyn Waugh de nos jours' - is the proud owner of a 'bird' whom he takes to a pub after what sounds like an evening at an art class. He tells us that the art teacher may very well fancy his bird as booze is knocked back. The sculptor, too, has designs on her contours. Then someone identified as the mother-in-law asks whom the bird is with. To which the bird replies, 'testily': ‘No one expects the Spanish Inquisition!’

Is it a bird?

Who could this bird be? Given her vocal feistiness, Janet Street-Porter? Dame Shirley Porter? Perhaps even Clarissa Dickson Wright?

Or could it be one Farah Damji? - described by the Evening Standard as 'London's most dangerous woman?' Well, it's not beyond the realms of possibility. Both Jeremy and Farah are highly attractive persons free at the point of delivery and of proven fertility. Both exhibit a cosmopolitan tolerance of some of life's hardier annuals while nonetheless flouncing about in rarefied atmospheres - the Spectator's in Jeremy's case.

Jeremy Clarke

It is distressing then to learn that when she attempted to defend her love in the last 24 hours, by posting a comment below his Low Life column in response to my foul abuse, she was censored! I believe the comment has now been restored - but we can't have the home of free speech (ie the Speccie) nursed along by nannies or people better off running sex clinics (reception).

But whatever the truth of the matter, I extend my best wishes to lovebirds everywhere. Just remember: the fun is always in making up, you sweety-tweeties!

Twitter's 'Snobs' named: Chris Moyles, Annie Lennox and... Yvette Cooper!

One of the joys of Twitter is clearing out useless, boring or unresponsive tweeters with Twit Clean (this is not an ad!). The service produces reports on tweeting performance.

Now, let's see. Annie Lennox: she's described as 'self-obsessed, talks about self more than 50% of the time.' She's also rated a 'Snob' because she follows back only 0.02% of her followers (c.72,000). Well she can go.

Radio One DJ Chris Moyles is also a Snob, only following back 82 of his 2.3 million fans. Other Snobs include Guardian Books, Jemima Khan (following back only 150 of 170,000 followers), Eminem (no interactions), the New Statesman (selling as few as 4,000 copies a week according to Guido Fawkes), Mariah Carey (following back just 58 of 7 million fans), Queen Rania, Telegraph writer Mary Riddell, Yvette Cooper (and she wants to be the next Labour leader), Donald Trump and TMZ.com.

Alas, Tatler is 'self-obsessed' and therefore 'not so interesting' (a pity because the magazine is now excellent).

Missing, presumed sedated, include Fern Britton who has posted nothing in 804 days; and Private Eye deputy editor Francis Wheen (who has a poorly back and his literary shed is now ash - fair excuses).

Wheen remains. Most of the rest - you've bored me long enough.

Chris Blackhurst: Is the Independent editor a bit of a cunty?

Jemima Khan

I have no idea. But given that blogging and journalism are about nine-tenths hearsay or speculation or gossip or plain wrong, we should not permit mere complete absence of any knowledge whatsoever to inhibit a voyage into the fog bank.

A story in the Guardian today informs us that Jemima Khan has departed the Indy for the New Statesman and its sexy former mascara'd New Romantic editor Jason Cowley. Apparently, Jemima - who as guest-editor this year single-handedly reinvented the Staggers by showcasing Hugh Grant's espionage skills in the phone hacking scandal - was disinclined to tolerate de facto demotion and reduced column inches as decreed by Indy new editor Chris Blackhurst.

Troublingly, these saddening events were preceded by 'warm' praise for Khan from Mr Blackhurst.

This reminds me of the fate of Richard Ingrams. The former Indy columnist reported a reassuring lunch with Mr Blackhurst, but the pabulum had scarcely reached the ex-Private Eye editor's sigmoid colon and he learned that he had been dropped by the paper.

Now, we've all done it as editors. Not been entirely straight with contributors before the axe is swung, usually to get the publication through a tricky, holiday-strewn Christmas or mid-summer schedule. But Mr Blackhurst must beware of saying one thing and doing another: not only is the Indy supposed to be nicer than the rest of the Dacre-alikes but he is alienating luminous revengers. No one forgives surprise dismissal, constructive or otherwise, and the tentacles of tit-for-tat spite are without end, though I'm sure Mr Ingrams and the investigative Goldsmith plutocrat are honourable exceptions.

Mr Blackhurst didn't entirely do himself credit in the Johann Hari scandal, either: there he was on Newsnight gamely attributing Hari's mishaps to a lack of journalistic education while the viewing public scoffed on their sofas. I'm afraid even the rather pleasant face of Mr Blackhurst betrayed a little of his own inner-scoffer, as the smiles waxed and waned a little too readily.

It pains me to write this as the Indy has been so sweet about Madame Arcati in the past. Then again I always question face value, as we all should in these uncertain times.

Celebrity power: Hugh Grant and Jemima Khan save the New Statesman

Jemima and Hugh save mag

Even the ancient legend that is Madame Arcati finds herself astonished. I thought I'd heard and seen it all. Hugh Grant - yes, the man who is the current incarnation of British movie upper class cock-cunter - has saved the New Statesman. His naughty article on how he stitched up a former News of the World hack (see previous post) on illegal phone hacking in the Murdoch empire is now trending on Twitter. This is thanks to the feature going online (not from purchase!) - drawing in tens of thousands of new readers and reinventing the magazine in the process.

The mag now understands that celebrity power is its future, particularly since it is Stephen Fry who's leading the battle tweet (with a link to the mag that doesn't work). I tweeted first, natch. Also, countless people now know of the skulduggery at the Screws even though much of Hugh's nuggets are not new.

And all this occurred on guest editor and socialite Jemima Khan's watch. Frankly, if you haven't done a Hello! spread, just fuck off. Celebrities' low carbon spotlights make a spectacle of everything adjacent. NS ed Jason Cowley must stand down in favour of Jemima. Now. She can make him travel or beauty ed or whatever. Keep him 'appy, as they mispronounce in northern soaps.

BJ (Before Jemima), the NS squeaked. AJ, it roars. I do not recommend a BJ situation.

Now, it is true I ran a very rude piece about Jemima only the other day. But part of my function is to fill the sails of the zeitgeist so that we may journey forth. Suzanne Moore was right to highlight the total neglect of editorial low-class urchins without a job or famous parent. Jason was right to bring in Jemima. This paradox must not cause us sleepless nights. Jemima can be installed and she will hire more under-privileged urchins.

Problem solved.

PS My thanks to the New Statesman's Helen Lewis and Duncan Robinson for giving me the precise figure of Hugh Grant hits on the NS website: 'A lot'.

Jemima Khan: Why is a rich, connected socialite guest editing the New Statesman?

Jemima Khan

The divine newspaper columnist Suzanne Moore has made her thoughts known on the topic of Jemima Khan guest editing the current issue of the New Statesman. As a former writer on the little-read publication, who departed amid some acrimony, she's entitled. Suzanne has no personal beef with the fragrant Jemima but does wonder on a social network site, slyly, whether the magazine may 'walk the walk on social mobility.'

By this I assume she means: when will the left-wing organ open up the editorial floodgates to talents who are not the spawn of very famous rich families and/or international socialites with a lot of crawly friends? Suzanne speculates aloud whether Peaches Geldof might succeed Jemima (next time editor and former Durannie Jason Cowley fancies undertaking some Big Society work).

I must say Jemima wins the Madame Arcati Award for Self-Promotion. Just about every piece she either wrote or commissioned was pushed on Twitter - I adore the musk of ambition and cannot criticise the poppet. Thanks to Jemima we now know that Nick Clegg blubs to music; though student face-readers will have already discerned the moany cry-baby countenance in repose. In May he will be crying an awful lot, alas.

Now that Jemima has reminded us that non-editors tend to do a better job than editors as editors, may I suggest that Suzanne Moore be invited to guest edit an edition of the New Statesman in the not too distant future. Her brief reign would be a reminder of what this magazine once stood for - and exemplify the meritocracy Mr Clegg now espouses (without a mandate, natch).

PS Helen Lewis, assistant editor of the New Statesman, tweets me: 'Well, I worked with her [Jemima] on it, and thought she was lovely (and brought in great articles). You can quote me on that!'

PPS Another tweet: mailto:'tlcSW7@Madame_Arcati re guest ed "it was an ironic move in a week when the gov't announced an end to upaid internships for the rich"'

PPPS Suzanne Moore tweets: 'My issue with Jemima is not at [all] personal. She did a good job .It is entirely political. I want jobs to go to unemployed talents.'

Andrew Neil parties with the stars on election night!

Most ghastly fun on election night was Andrew Neil's celebrity Thames barge party. Whenever Jeremy Paxman drawled himself into bored paralysis in the BBC studio - where a hereditary Dimbleby anchor modelled Dame Barbara Cartland's mortuary makeup - we cut pierside and to Andrew's game attempt to cross Nicky Haslam with Capt Bligh.

Beyond Andrew's well-chronicled adoration of stars it was hard to see what his Debrett's People of Today-approved liggers added to the occasion, but at least the likes of Bill Wyman kept him happy. We wouldn't want the chairman of the rightwing Spectator publishing company not to feel indulged.

There was Bruce Forsyth. Bereft of a gameshow crowd of dentured chucklers, he twirled to face the party-gatherers behind him and cried, "Nice to see you ..." etc, to indifferent response. The former Sunday Times editor didn't know where to look. Standing by Bruce's side was Sir Ben Kingsley (or "Sirben" as he's better known to luvvies) who irrelevantly paid tribute to democracy in a poorer part of the world. Neil looked unengaged (Gemini!), backed away a bit... [cut to studio!].

Private Eye fans will have welcomed the sight of Ian Hislop positioned within slapping distance of our host. For years the magazine has repeatedly published a photo of a vested Andrew partying with some gorgeous gal (not Pamella Bordes!), wilfully misspelt his name (Neill) and teased his thatch ("Brillo"). But for the TV cameras they were buddies - isn't that always the case with slebs? Ian seemed put out by the Lib Dem collapse which gave Andrew an opportunity to josh him as a commie bastard, or something.

Oh, revenge handbags at the next starry do!

Earlier, Andrew had talked with Ian's other mortal foe, Piers Morgan. It was a shocking exchange. Piers sounded intelligent and faintly socialist! He looked slimmer than I recall! Next to him was Mariella Whatsup who bemoaned the influence of markets on democracy; and did I see Jane Moore of The Sun there?, sounding a lot less enamoured of the Tories than in her column. I guess she has to keep Rebekah happy.

Later Andrew invited Martin Amis to bring some "literary sense" to the election. Mart tried but it's hard to think amid canapés. And then I noticed on Twitter that Guardian writer Jemima Kiss thought Andrew "needs a better colourist. Sheesh."

Yes, to start with.

Suzanne Moore for editor: She's Independent, are you?

Make this woman the new editor of the Independent and stop pissing about.

She's a liberal-leftist icon and she makes lots of money from Lord Rothermere by offending him every week in one of his own newspapers. She's proof you don't have to become a rightwing 'mare to coin it in journalism.

And she's no Labour lapdog. When last year the New Statesman made Alastair Campbell guest-editor she resigned from the magazine on highly publicised principle. How could a publication which opposed the Iraq invasion get cuddlesome with one of the war's chief mongers? She's of the left but no apparatchik. Just what we need as virtually every British newspaper right now takes dictation from Andy Coulson.

She's indie down to her legendary fuck-me shoes. She is Madame Arcati's most interesting choice.

Her name is Suzanne Moore. Google her.

(Meanwhile, Rod Liddle's skin colour problem)

Nicky Haslam Redeeming Features book party - but sans the young boyfriend!

Haslam with Cilla Black, friends again, though she's mentioned only in passing in his memoir. Bitches

Do you imagine the spirit of Madame Arcati can be barred from a party she is determined to attend? How sad and deluded you must be.

Of course I was at Nicky Haslam's Warhol-y parties to mark the publication (at last) of his memoir Redeeming Features. All three of me at the two of them. It was Bonfire Night. Nicky: in monochrome as a Regency rake. Slimmer. Whiter-haired. We Arcatis drifted into London's Aqua Nueva and clocked novelist Susie Boyt wearing the same damned ugly bridesmaid-style, too shiny dress - emerald green! - she had on at Fay Weldon's book launch about 6 or 8 weeks ago. It doesn't flatter her at all and the main reason we say so is because she's some sort of style queen. She sings Judy Garland in any case. Her soul is plainly gay male.

Duncan Fallowell attended fully clothed

Countless white-haired cocks were all about: Duncan Fallowell knew them all so we asked him for IDs. Most amusing as ever and he confided, between canapes and a little chat-up of the German waiter (whose name we'd reveal if we hadn't accidentally binned the scrap of paper), that given the size of the crowd, he was impressed that there were only two people there with whom he'd engaged in carnal relations. He wouldn't say who. Not Nicky Haslam though.

Cilla Black turned up late even though she and Nicky are supposed to have fallen out according to Lynn Barber who left early. The International Herald Tribune's fashion queen Suzy Menkes OBE queued eagerly to get her book signed - just ahead of us so we complimented her violet nail varnish, which was just a ruse to peer into her quiffy rollbar coiffure and marvel. She couldn't wait to see what NH wrote in her book. She's not in it, by the way.

Any number of people posed with their fingers stuck mid-book for the impression they'd "found their mention" - a party strategy to appear important regardless of omission or commission. The elder slebs took lots of pics of each other as if to celebrate unexpected longevity: Andy and Sony would have loved it.

Nicky's niece: her card is in our purse. Why? Carina Haslam (http://www.carinahaslamart.com/). And we also have Johnny Gibson's card who's head of marketing of Sound and Music, at Somerset House. Who he? With Carina?

Duran Duran's Nick Rhodes posed about still with the 60s Liz Taylor mascara while the actress who plays Gail in Coronation Street looked exactly as she does on TV except in better clothes. We met Nicky's "designer stalker" Fish and her very cute friend, a chap called Shaun (or Shawn) who edited the BBC documentary on Nicky out on the 16th.

That was the common party the papers wrote about. The after-party at Mahiki was more fun, despite the exorbitant cocktails - or was it? At one point Nicky sat next to us and we asked whether his young handsome filmmaker boyfriend was here. Nicky said no, he couldn't get hold of him. Awwww.

Suzanne Moore, New Statesman and Campbell's 'lies'

Suzanne Moore responds to Alastair Campbell via Madame Arcati

Fancy the New Statesman ridding itself of the utterly enchanting writer Suzanne Moore - and not even bothering to tell her. She'd written for the publication for 20 years, then last week it was guest-edited by the hideous bully and Iraq War apologist Alastair Campbell. This was the last straw for Suzanne who volubly recalled, unlike its useless, hapless and pompous editor Jason Cowley, that the mag had opposed the Iraq invasion. She opened her copy of the mag and saw her name had been dropped from the masthead.

She told all in the Mail on Sunday yesterday, click here. She writes: "I know it is now possible to get fired by text or email but have I been fired without even realising it? Quite a feat, even by my amateurish standards. Also, have I been fired from a nominal position for which I didn’t get paid?"

Suzanne got in touch with me this morning about the matter, and in particular, in response to a long page 3 report in today's Guardian. She is incensed by Campbell who's quoted as saying in an email to the paper: "I had no idea she worked for the New Statesman. I don't read the Mail on Sunday. But professing commitment to leftwing values in that rightwing rag lends a somewhat weakened credibility to anything she says."

Suzanne writes to Madame Arcati: "What Campbell says is surprisingly lies. He knows who I write for or he should as his partner Fiona once came round to interview me and my daughter about state education. But perhaps they just don't talk anymore. Who can say?"

Certainly I shall not be reading the Statesman anymore - it requires a change of owners(s), editor as well as culture. You can't have a leftwing magazine run by practising right-wingers.

Meantime my congratulations to Suzanne on her principled stand.

Jason Cowley: 'He likes them big'

Dearest Madame,

Is it common knowledge that Louis Amis, scion of Martin Amis, now Manchester University's most controversial professor, has joined the world of hackdom and is now answering the phones at Spectator upstart, Standpoint magazine? I've just pitched an idea at him.

Incidentally, the course that Martin Amis now 'teaches' on at Manchester Uni was one that I completed myself several years ago, when it was taught by the inimitable Suzannah Dunn and the charming Martyn Beford, both of whom deserve to sell far more books than they do.

During the course we had Jason Cowley, the newly installed editor of the New Statesman, up for a visit to talk to us about literary journalism. There he made a marvellously sweeping point about how 'young writers nowadays don't want to write on big themes or big books' (this is in between zoning most of his conversation in on one of my fellow student's cleavage). I didn't have the heart to tell him that with tuition fees, zilch contact time, part-time jobs and the incessant milkround of work experience expected of most undergraduates nowadays it's a miracle they come out of university with enough energy left to write a haiku.

The young write small books
Because their overdrafts are large.
Eliot's ghost weeps

Best regards as ever,

Chris Klee

Dear Chris,

Thank you for your delightfully informative letter, especially on Jason Cowley, who only reads books by tastefully appointed publishers, and appears the very model of catalogue-driven orthodoxy in all matters. I shall examine his horoscope. You don't happen to have a photo of him looking like David Sylvian do you, in make-up? I had heard that Louis was gainfully employed at a tastefully appointed magazine in keeping with his father's good name: the glamour of heredity is a hard one to beat. But that's not to deny Louis' independent talents, assumed.

Love, light and other New Age bullshit words

MAx

The New Statesman and Empress Madame Arcati

Do read Duncan Fallowell’s marvellous diary in this week’s New Statesman – Scrooges can click here.

His first item tackles the verminous anony-mice of the internet (I know them soooooooo well) who have sent him abusive mail over his (still) unpublished New Zealand book Going as Far as I Can: The Ultimate Travel Book. In the course of this he touches upon the “two empresses of the blogosphere, Susan Hill and Madame Arcati”. Other than the fact that he lists our names in the wrong order – and Susan is too pacific a person to be called an empress; she is more a Queen (but should at least be made a Dame [Dame Susan Hill, mm, yes ...]) – Madame Arcati is pleased to appear in the Staggers’ pages, particularly on the day its editor John Kampfner has resigned. I’ll come back to him in a minute.

But anyway, Empresses Madame and Susan are name-checked for their appeal to their vast publics (hello Quebec!) to send comforting “online hugs” to Duncan as the ghastly, cowardly anony-mice nibbled away at him with their blunt yellow teeth over a book they have yet to read. Such was the response – and such our influence – that he ended up feeling “buried alive in chocolate truffles”. There’s no pleasing some people.

But anyway, back to Mr Kampfner. Yes, he’s gone! Was it as recent as the summer of 2006 that he delivered a triumphalist speech at a Statesman party over the increase in circulation (25k to 30K a week I think)? Tesco paid for the champagne then and the Hamiltons hustled about. At last summer’s do Virgin paid for the champers and the Hamiltons hustled about (see my party pieces on labels). At the latter knees-up Kampfner was plainly subdued, his speech perfunctory, his boss Geoffrey Robinson faintly sarcastic about a throne and his editor. An empress of pre-resignation body language I feared then that he was not long for this world. He lasted longer than I expected. A staffer told me that the two men were at odds over budgets.

As Kampfner spoke my eyes were drawn to columnist Suzanne Moore's fuck-me shoes and their gorgeous lace-ups: I was rendered deaf. Though I would deny being lesbotic I did feel a funny tingling - my uterus sort of sighed - and I imagined her heels were six inches long, which is good length for all sorts of different things. She subsequently corrected me on this in a published message.

May I suggest Paul McCartney buy the magazine off Robinson once he’s given Heather her £80m (the global prayer meeting went well, thank you)? I think Macca would be perfetto.

Kampfner glammed up the Staggers: he ushered in the nice silky paper. His stand-out piece was the Tony Blair wars report which listed the numbers of the dead from his various military entanglements. He brought in Julian Clary – a feline diarist of minor absurdities - but failed to sign up Mr Fallowell as the magazine’s travel editor. What a loss. Tsk. His worst mistake was letting go arts writer Ben Dowell – who I hear it rumoured has embarked on a mini-me adventure. I prefer cats myself.

Kampfner’s gone but he’ll be back in a senior role on a newspaper. He has a loud voice, the requisite certainties and lovely big ears. If he wants his horoscope done, he’ll have to send his birth details.

Pompeii Down!, Madonna Down! Open, Up!

1. Sad to hear that Roman Polanski has quit directing movie Pompeii. All sorts of reasons have been given for this ranging from failure to develop a tentpole script for a massive return on the $100m investment to the hot weather this year in south Italy - which is a bit like moaning about the chill in Siberia. Last I visited Pompeii in this incarnation I noticed that rival cartographers - at least three at the last count - had mapped the ruins differently so you didn't really know where you were. I thought of writing a comedy about it - mainly for the location pleasures - but then thought better of it.

2. Madonna dragged out of a Bloc Party gig in a headlock? Hard to believe.

3. Going to the Open magazine [click here] launch tonight incognito - a new arts/media online mag with a populist approach, and horoscopes. My kind of mag: culture and trash all in one. Then the New Statesman party on Thursday, incognito again, where I shall ask where's their brilliant arts diary.

New Statesman/Tesco party

To the New Statesman summer party at Tate Britain last Thursday. The London mercury's through the roof and not even sepulchral cool stone interiors can entirely lift the heat from Britain's radiant left-ish intelligentsia. So that on entry one is struck immediately by an ambience of herd body odour.
The elderly magazine has recently enjoyed the benefits of editorial HRT with the appointment of editor John Kampfner. One of the results is a new, lovely silky complexion, replacing the rough old paper stock, and a blooming of colour as fresh blood courses everywhere.
You know the weekly must be doing well because Tesco has provided the free champagne. The NS has finally caught up with Tony Blair.
As Kampfner addresses the sweaty throng – “We’re selling 30,000 copies a week, subscriptions are at record levels!” – an odd little man in Seventies’ denim sidles up. “I’m back,” he says conspiratorially, crystal ear studs sparkling. “I was out in the wilderness but I’m back in again.” It’s one-time NME hero Charles Shaar Murray: he’s humblingly grateful for this happy turn in his fortunes. “They’ve given me some work again,” he adds when I appear uncomprehending.
Then he darts over to the Independent’s literary ed Boyd Tonkin with a book in hand to reassure him he’ll be getting the review shortly. Well, when you’re a freelance you’ve got to work the party.
Then I bump into a radio producer. “Oh God,” he says. “Charlie Whelan should be coming but he’s dead drunk. He collapsed on the floor at Westminster, I don’t know if he’s coming.” Yet half-an-hour later Gordon Brown’s former press rottweiler turns up looking sober so I don’t know what to believe.
Neil and Christine Hamilton present an incongruous sight given his Thatcherite past, twinned at the hip as ever: she's clad in a shocking red frock, perhaps in homage to the NS's political past. A pinkish hue might be more appropriate de nos jours. Julian Clary is advised to lose a little weight.
As I talk with the mag’s excellent new arts diarist Ben Dowell, I spot Clare Short passing by. “Darling,” I scream, “I just love you!” We’ve never met before yet she reciprocates my affectionate greeting with a joyous hug – “I love you too!” she shouts.
But I soon turn serious. “Now Clare,” I say, “what’s with you and kittens? On a Radio 4 show sometime ago, on cruelty to animals and vivisection, you said something like if a child is a cruel to a kitten, it’s not the kitten you worry about, it’s the child who’s capable of being cruel to the kitten, that’s my concern. Clare how could you say such a thing? What about the kitty?”
Clare looks utterly bemused. “I don’t remember saying that. When did I say that?” So we argue amiably until I’m dragged away by a friend. We observe John Kamfner who keeps lifting his legs up for some reason as he anecdotalises: I notice he has those hooded sort of eyes that I always associate with ruthlessness: Margaret Thatcher has them, too. Madame Arcati says he will be very successful.
Michael Buerk is holding court, very animated now in a crumpled white jacket. I spot ex-Times ed and columnist Simon Jenkins, on a recce for copy maybe: I've never quite worked out his politics, but he writes great sentences. The Observer/Mail writer Mary Riddell snakes about the party inscrutably. “I wonder if they’ve put up their rates,” she says. Now she’s blonded up she looks years younger. At the People in the late ‘80s she sported a hideous Bowie-esque hairdo.
I need air. My companion and I escape into London’s allergen-heavy ozone. I want to say something to Will Self but my companion drags me away to another party.