Diary – 22 March 2018

I went to a dinner for Toby Young, who has had some troubles of late, at this magazine’s gracious HQ, hosted by the editor. I was slightly dreading being beasted by a reptilian gathering of hard Brexiters, but it was in the diary. So I tipped up last Friday in a somewhat plunging jumpsuit and accepted only water as aperitif, wittering about not having done my column yet and having to do Newsnight later. Half an hour later I was knocking back claret and competing to tell embarrassing stories about Toby and it was still only 7.15 p.m. (the evening started at the ungodly hour of 6.30 p.m.). Over the beef I asked who the greybeard on my left was, across from Douglas Murray and James Delingpole. ‘He was the treasurer of Vote Leave,’ Tobes whispered back. And he seemed so nice! I read aloud rare extracts from Young’s juvenilia that had escaped the rabid attention of the Twitchfork mob, and reminded the guest of honour that he had repaid me for taking him and his wife Caroline on holiday to Marrakech last October by publishing his thank-you letter headlined, ‘My holiday hell with angry Remoaners’.