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.

Tesco: A Bryn Phillips Guerrilla Party - police gatecrash

I could say something about Michael Foot who has just died, aged 143, but to be quite honest I always disliked the way his mouth seemed to froth up during windbag monologues. History can turn on such things. Instead enjoy the work of the love of my life (after Molly Parkin, natch) Bryn Phillips who has just held an "illegal" Guerrilla Party at a Tesco supermarket (Dalston, London) amid trolley-pushers and other discount-slavering agony aunt writers. I understand he held a similar do on a London train a while back. These parties are so good that the police gatecrash them, as they did at Tesco. Isn't Bryn sooo cute - he's the one singing in his tan coat. We must make him famous. Lovely voice. And hands. Keep him away from Simon Cowell. He's mine.

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.

Granta's New Nature Writing: Read and discuss

Jason Cowley's Granta devotes its Summer 2008 issue to nature writing - not your Laurie Lee lyrical burbling, but a new kind that interests me. The only fiction featured in the edition, Phantom Pain, is by someone called Lydia Peelle. She sets out her literary green philosophy which in brief ... well, actually, she puts it rather well and doesn't need paraphrasing, and I'm lifting her words from Cowley's editor's letter:

'The new nature writing,’ she told me, ‘rather than being pastoral or descriptive or simply a natural history essay, has got to be couched in stories – whether fiction or non-fiction – where we as humans are present. Not only as observers, but as intrinsic elements. I feel this is important, because we’ve got to reconnect ourselves to our environment and fellow species in every way we can, every chance we have. In my thinking, it is the tradition of the false notion of separation that has caused us so many problems and led to so much environmental degradation. I believe that it is our great challenge in the twenty-first century to remake the connection. I think our lives depend on it.’
Granta's New Nature Writing

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

Madame Arcati as editor of the New Statesman

I think it’s time Madame Arcati applied for the New Statesman editorship and put owner Geoffrey Robinson out of his misery. Just leave it to me. The magazine’s worthiness must be totally expunged and my ruthless editorial initiatives would include:

1 The introduction of a horoscope that had coded messages and goss from Westminster as well as astrological guidance for named persons.

2 Human interest analyses of our power players eg Why does Gordon Brown’s voice go husky on Fiona Phillips’ TV sofa? – by a voice coach. No one cares to read political essays apart from some ugly swats with fat behinds and scant head hair (but nasty bushy pubes).

3 Duncan Fallowell appointed Books and Travel editor. He could work from home or Auckland. He would write the lead pieces and supply goss.

4 The Exes Files: A Top Of The Pops-style weekly update of the biggest spenders at Westminster detailing what’s been acquired through expenses – with pictures + competitions to win items and services featured.

5 Bodies - a page dedicated to the examination of politicians’ personal appearance – aesthetics, body mass index, sulphur index from breath, clothes etc. My friend Karl Lagerfeld could advise. I would also commission a weekly DNA profile to calculate when the subject's likely to die. And of what.

6 Madame Arcati’s Prognostications – Rome had The Sybil, the UK could have Arcati, tapping the unseen forces that have more influence on our lives than fucking endogenous growth theory.

7 Madame Arcati’s séance with a famous dead politician starting with Winston Churchill. I’m sure Winnie would have a few things to say to Gord. Boudicca on Ruth Kelly would be a revelation.

8 Lady Colin Campbell’s Diary: She would flit all over the place collecting goss-nectar from royal and powerful places. Lots of pictures and one-line sentences. A mag needs colour, darling.

9 In Bed With A Politician: Each week we would literally get into a powerful person’s bed and talk about all things done horizontal – sex, sleep, coma, drinking etc – and admire the ceiling.

10 The Destroy Page: Of course the NS has to retain a bit of social conscience so we’d identify a bully or some bit of scandal, personalise it, and then call for the total destruction of the Guilty Person(s) – a piece supported by incriminating videos on YouTube and online petitions. Geoffrey might have to stump up a budget for this one.

I have no doubt whatsoever that these measures would restore the magazine in our affections and make it, y'know, interesting.

Suzanne Moore writes ...

Darling Suzanne Moore - of fuck-me shoes fame (copyright G Greer) - writes a short note following my New Statesman party report ...

Madame you flatter me. Not six inches - barely three! Strange do though....I didn't meet the only person I wanted to meet.
Suzanne X

New Statesman party: Virgin takes over from Tesco

Good turn out of dark suits and floral frocks at the rather subdued New Statesman's “summer” do at the Banqueting House in Westminster last night.

Under Rubens’ splendid ceiling in the Main Hall – one of the last things Charles I would have gazed upon before losing his head on the scaffold just outside in 1649 - proprietor Geoffrey Robinson mounted the throne dais and announced that Gordon Brown was expected at 8.30-ish pm. If the PM did turn up – if he could be bothered to cross the road from Downing Street – I wouldn’t know because he was still not there 45 minutes after ETA when I left. Before then, Robinson introduced his editor John Kampfner for whom, he suggested, the throne was a better fit.

Kamfner’s speech wasn’t the gung-ho marathon of last year when he was the debutant editor on a mission to impose his youth on the venerable organ. I expected him to reel off stats aplenty but instead he just barked at the throng with that over-manly, Andrew Marr-y voice of his – I do wish some editors were swishy and effeminate (Statesman columnist Julian Clary would be perfect) – and I haven’t a clue what he said, to be honest as I was preoccupied by Suzanne Moore's shoes (see below).

Best person of the evening, aside from Ben Dowell, the magazine’s erstwhile much-missed arts diarist and Open’s new arts diarist, was his guest Stephenie Booth, fourth wife of the actor Tony Booth, the father of Cherie Blair (sometimes Booth QC), wife of the former PM Tony Blair. “I expected you to have big hair,” I said in a Tourettes-y moment, gazing at her chic crop. “I expected great architecture on top of your head, hair sweeps, etc.”

Another woman might have taken offence at this but she was most sporting. She said: “Maybe you were thinking of Pat Phoenix – she had big hair …” Yes, may be. Phoenix was the late Coronation Street actress who played Elsie Tanner, Tony’s second wife, a beautiful lacquered siren of sorts who smoked a lot.

Stephenie and Tony are based in West Yorkshire and I think she said she stays over at Cherie’s when she’s in London – I may have got that wrong; party conversation is really wonky radio stuff. "I love my husband, he makes me laugh, he's so funny," she said. She is involved with a newish charity called The Great Generation so I look up the website later. Its mission is to “To help tackle world poverty, by encouraging and sustaining charitable giving.” For more click here.

To my surprise she and Tony are on good terms with Tony and Cherie, despite the former Tony's opposition to the Iraq war. To her surprise I was able to tell her that "Broonite" Geoffrey Robinson and Gordon Brown are not the best buddies of political lore, owing to all sorts of treacheries by the former Chancellor. “Yes, but then Gordon doesn’t have friends,” someone in our group observed.

As to the party itself, Virgin Media paid for the generous supplies of champagne (Tesco last year), Christine Hamilton and her idiotic bowtied husband hustled about, Sky’s political editor Adam Boulton padded on the periphery in cheap rubber-looking shoes with a red stripe up the back sole, columnist Suzanne Moore wore a complicated pair of fuck-me shoes – all 6in spikes and lacy ankle binds – Austin Mitchell MP held court in front of the throne and all sorts of other nano-journo and political stars huddled together in butt-out circles of shouting and mis-hearing.

In a gathering of left-leaning winners who eagerly embrace capitalism, the royal throne seemed entirely at home.