BORIS FOR MAYOR!

Boris Johnson is going to run for Mayor of London! I for one have already pledged my support. Despite my mildly left-leaning inclinations, I have always been fond of Boris, with his boyish good looks and his mop of Teutonic blond hair (although his ancestry is anything but Teutonic). I think he would make a jolly good Mayor of London. First of all, I don't think he's half the buffoon that he pretends to be, as can be clearly seen from his editorship of The Spectator, several publications, his TV documentary about Rome and his appearances on "Have I got news for you", although I might suggest that he tone down the Beano-type image a little during his campaign. Secondly, he brings a little humour into politics. And what's wrong with that? Don't get me wrong, I think Ken Livingstone has done great things for London, and the newt population have much to be grateful for. But two terms is enough. If he was elected for a third term it's certain you would find Ken sinking into the delusion of absolute power, behaving like Elton John and getting exposed for some sordid financial scandal, and before you know it we'd have him in Brussels as Commissioner for Trade or something. So it's in the interests of democracy as well as of Europe to turf Ken out now. As Ian Hislop once said, Boris is the man to lead Britain forward into the 17th century. Read his opinion piece in the Evening Standard dated 16th July, on his website, which might give you a better picture of this self-confessed toff. Boris is not class-conscious, whatever people might think. As long as you understand the rules of rugby and cricket, and can stand up in a punt without spilling your Pimms, you're as good as anyone.

With my enviable connections in the higher echelons of Westminster (Imelda, the Dowager Duchess of Southend, still has a council flat on the Peabody estate, and those bin men do talk) I have managed to sneak a preview of Boris's proposed 10-point plan for the capital:

1. Anyone displaying mawkish sentimentality to be exiled to Liverpool or Portsmouth. Should a member of the Royal Family be suddenly extinguished in a car crash, a one-minute silence and the wearing of black tie on day of funeral to be only exterior signs of grief, accompanied by stiff upper lip. Manly sentimentality allowed, however, if England lose at rugger or cricket.

2. Decimal system to be abolished, reintroduce pounds shillings and pence. Cripes, might even bring back the sovereign while I'm at it.

3. City of London management to wear bowler hat and carry furled umbrella in winter, straw boaters and stripey blazers in the summer. Ladies: hats and gloves will be worn at all times.

4. The 2012 Oxford-Cambridge boatrace to be an Olympic event.

5. Bendy buses to be abolished. Routemaster to be brought back into service. Cheery Cockney bus conductors to be recruited, to shout "Plenty more room up top!" and ding the bell with gusto. Think about bringing back horse-drawn Omnibus.

6. The O2 Dome to be renamed the W.G. Grace Indoor Cricket Stadium. Cricket new Olympic event? Note to have a word with Spliffy.

7. Beer to be served at room temperature. Pimms to be on tap in all taverns in the town. Reintroduce licensing hours? Golly, better think about that one. Binge drinking to be frowned upon. Unless England win at rugby or cricket.

8. Holidays to be declared during Cowes Week and Henley Regatta. And Glyndebourne. And Ascot. Wimbledon. Badminton Horse Trials. And the Chelsea Flower Show. Oh dash it, all work to stop from June to August.

9. Fox hunting to be allowed in Hyde Park on the 3rd Sunday of each month.

10. Children under 4' tall to be allowed to take Saturday jobs as chimney sweeps.

Yes, Boris is my kind of fellow! And I'm not just saying that because I'm staying in Vera Slapp's house not a million miles from Henley, where he is MP. Now that Tony has gone, and I wouldn't bet my pearls on Gordon getting in again at the next election, maybe it's time to take a breather from the hectic pace of modernisation, and get back in touch with the thwack of willow on leather. But let's not venture into Boris's personal life.

Being but an occasional visitor to my hometown for the last 30 years, I am discovering all sorts of exciting things in London - both new and old. The "gherkin" (or "suppository" as I call it) is an exciting new addition to the city skyline. In my day, the Post Office Tower was the height of architectural daring! The City of London has been quite transformed, I drove through it last Sunday and didn't recognize the place. But then you come across something extremely old and enduring such as the Tower of London, and it makes you smile and go "aaaah!". A bit like Boris, really.

I was not terribly familiar with the East End of London until I renewed my acquaintance with my old hoofing buddy Bette Noire, who now lives in what used to be Kray territory. In the middle of the eco park off Grove Road in Bow, surrounded by luxury apartments, is The Palm Tree, a traditional London pub where the spirit of Reggie and Ronnie lives on, and which captures the real essence of London. It is essentially a jazz pub on weekends, and hence I felt quite at home, the average age of the clientele being only slightly older than myself. This is not to say they have one foot in the grave - far from it! We were chatted up by a sprightly pensioner who flirted outrageously, danced a vigorous jive with Bette, and then got up on stage and sang like Nat 'King' Cole. In jazz circles I find age is not an issue, anyone can join in as long as you love music, and unlike rock, the older you get the more venerated you are. Anyone who was young during the war or the golden years just after is held in high esteem in the jazz community, as not only will they know all the words to "You rascal you" but they will know how to do the hand jive.

People come from all over London and beyond to hear the music and experience the atmosphere of this lively and good-natured venue. A bunch of young Ruperts and Camillas in their bowties and ballgowns, no doubt having been to a society wedding, stood nursing their drinks and tapping their feet nervously at first, rather like Prescott and Mandelson at the Blair government inauguration party, probably terrified they were about to be dismembered, pickpocketed or at the very least spoken to in a Cockerney accent that they would not understand, but by the end of the evening they were jiving away and singing "You're no-one 'till somebody loves you" with everyone else.

Here's a sample of a typical Saturday night at The Palm Tree, obviously taken on a mobile phone camera by someone who was enjoying themself. Never mind the quality, feel the jellied eels. (Pat will be the only one who knows all the words!). Take it away, Gladys!