Diary – 19 May 2006

The embattled Prime Minister is not the only one being dogged by Blairite woes. I ran into his namesake Lionel, my friend of 50 years, in Sloane Square. He is still deeply upset about the theft of his beloved pooch, nabbed while his wife was walking in the park. Misty-eyed, he tells me that Debbie Forsyth (Bruce’s nipper to you) has just called with the awful news that her two Yorkies have been stolen. I say I’ve heard there’s a terrific trade in pet theft. Lionel’s eyes brighten. ‘Ooh. I haven’t had terrific trade for ages.’

In the late 1950s David Bailey and I used to frequent a very straight pub in darkest Dalston called the Deuragon, where the mums would proudly watch as their sons transformed into Marlene Dietrichs or Mae Wests. A Sunday or so ago, Roland Mouret, Dr Andrew Merron and I were the judges of the ‘Vogue’ Ball, held at the Horse Meat Disco in violet-hued Vauxhall.