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!

CRAIC CITY

I arrived safely back in Blighty yesterday, taunting the devil by travelling on Friday 13th (superstitious but rebellious, me). Ryanair was at least on time both ways, the airplane was new and enough leg room to wriggle your ankles. However I would only travel on a budget airline again departing from another airport. Gatwick is a nightmare, heaving with hoi polloi heading for such hotspots as "Pelermo" (sic) and Sharm el Sheikh. By the time you have added on the cost of checked-in luggage (I'm sorry, I just cannot travel with something the size of my makeup bag - you never know when you are going to need a ballgown) and the exorbitant cost of getting to Gatwick and back, you might as well have paid full whack and gone Aer Lingus.

Ireland was entirely enjoyable, despite almost constant rain (which just gave me an excuse to buy another umbrella!). I stayed in a delightful olde-worlde B&B Acorn House, at the bottom of St Patrick's Hill, very close to the town centre. There's something about highly patterned carpet and the smell of bacon drifting up the staircase in the morning that takes me back to my childhood, staying in guest houses on the Kent coast. The room was small but adequate and spotlessly clean, and even I can live without satellite TV and a mini-bar. Acorn House is extremely well run by Englishman Charlie and his Irish wife Jackie, and a full Irish breakfast every morning was hard to resist. So I didn't.

Cork has a number of things in common with Brussels. The main streets, for example, were once a river, as witnessed by the houses with steps leading up to the front doors. The river Lee runs under part of Patrick Street. Like Brussels, and in common with all Irish towns, Cork is in theory bilingual - street names and signposts are in Irish and English - but in reality everybody speaks English. After a fashion. The local brogue is so strong that I thought my taxi driver was speaking to his control centre in Gaelic, until I heard him say "Ilton John" and realized he was giving me a potted "What's On" for the week. Cork is de facto trilingual now, as I heard Polish spoken more than Irish. I counted three or four Polish shops, perused Polish and Lithuanian language local newspapers in W.H.Smith, and even the butcher in the English Market has labelled his produce in Polish as well as English! A number of Poles are employed in the construction industry, which is a delicious irony, in this country which lost a generation or two of their young men to English building sites.

Traditional Irish music is played in one or other of Cork's many hostelries most nights of the week, and I spent a pleasant couple of evenings sampling the local liquid specialities whilst listening to some lively Celtic tunes. Although the musicians and instruments changed according to the venue, I saw the same chap playing the spoons everywhere. He appeared quite intently focussed on playing his cutlery, but when he stood up it was clear he had over-indulged a little on the black stuff. He engaged me in conversation as I was taking in the evening air during a break in the music, with the traditional Irish greeting: "Begorra fag?" We exchanged pleasantries and discussed the merits of various kinds of spoons for musical purposes. I do like to see people using the correct cutlery. I encountered him again the following night in another tavern, where he had obviously been imbibing, and was having trouble remaining in a vertical position. He had that wonderful ability to dive headlong towards the carpet without spilling a drop of his pint, which is one of the key events in the Gaelic Games. He remembered me - when his eyes eventually focussed - and gave me a broad Irish grin. "Da fruit gorl!" he exclaimed, before sliding sideways off his stool. I must say, thanks to my hat, people tend to remember me! In Cork you will find 'good craic' as they say in a number of hostelries, including Sin E and The Corner Place in Coburg Street on the north side, An Bodhran on Oliver Plunkett Street, Clancy's on Princes Street, and the Slainte Bar in Market Lane off Patrick Street.

The inhabitants of Cork appear quite comfortably off, the number of smart shops, 4x4 cars, and East European immigrant workers testifying to the reality of the Celtic Tiger economy. There was the occasional swaying Irishman talking lovingly to his can of Caffrey's in the street, but the beggars were quite obviously not Irish. The locals were instead dining out in style in the many smart restaurants, the smartest of which is perhaps Greene's on MacCurtain Street, where I dined on my last evening in Ireland. I took a pre-prandial on the deck overlooking a 40' high waterfall before proceeding into one of the spacious dining rooms where the efficient (and mostly French) staff looked after me royally.

I used to be a little self-conscious about dining alone, in the early days after Harold's demise, but now I'm quite adept, and I would even say I prefer it. Dining solo gives one the opportunity to read, text or ogle the waiter's bottom without feeling obliged to entertain or pretend to be entertained, and one can appreciate the food without any distractions. In fact, I am heartily glad that I don't have to put up with Harold's silliness at the table any more. For those of you who may still find it a little difficult facing a roomfull of diners, I offer you a couple of tips. Firstly, if you are lucky enough to be short sighted, take off your glasses - you should still be able to see what you are eating, but you can't see all the other diners sniggering and pointing at you. Secondly, take a notebook and pen, and make notes during your meal, occasionally peering at the menu. The staff will assume you are a distinguished food writer and you will get right royal treatment.

This trick worked a treat at Greene's where the young waitress presented me with a quite unsolicited appetizer while I perused the menu. I thought she said it was a "chilled red pepper and tomato Bloody Mary", but after a couple of mouthfuls it became obvious that she had said "chilli" not "chilled". I pondered the pan seared loin of rabbit wrapped in Serrano ham with parsnips and honey mash, caramelized figs, beetroot jus and sage and parmesan tuile, but decided there was far too much going on in that plate, and chose a simple dish of medium-rare duck breast on saute potatoes, shallot and girolle mushrooms timbale, melted foie gras and Rossini sauce. It was beautfully presented and quite delicious, with a glass of Merlot. The restaurant manager came over to check that everything was to my liking, and, having inspected his trim French derriere earlier on, I assured him it was. Instead of a dessert I took a delicious Irish coffee well laced with whiskey, and after paying the very reasonable bill I wandered out into the soft evening drizzle through a pleasant alcoholic haze, feeling quite at one with my heritage. I sang "Danny Boy" softly to my can of Murphy's, and knew I had come home.

THE LITTLE PEOPLE

Your intrepid reporter writes from Cork, Ireland, where I have spent a very pleasant few days rediscovering my roots. I think I've rather fallen under the spell of Ireland. Cork is a lovely town, highly recommended for a long weekend; it's relatively unspoilt, big enough to keep you amused for more than a day but small enough to get around comfortably even without wheels. I have been on a few excursions, to Cobh, whence an estimated 2 million Irish emigrated, not all of them willingly, and to Blarney to visit the ancestral pile. I did not kiss the Blarney Stone, as I am not lacking in eloquence, and it involved a most inelegant manoeuvre culminating in an act of dubious hygiene. I left that to the dozens of Homer and Marge Simpsons with their digital cameras and instead went to investigate the Blarney Woollen Mills, where Homer and Marge were emptying the shelves of genuine Vietnamese Aran sweaters and plastic leprechaun keyrings.

I shall tell you more about my Irish adventure next week as I'm off to catch my plane; given that it's Friday 13th I hope some of the luck of the Irish has rubbed off on me. Just in case, I'm clutching a plastic Chinese leprechaun.

IT'S A JUNGLE OUT THERE

There is an odd smell in my hallway. Not unpleasant, you understand, just reminiscent of the rather strong manure. Apparently Aunty Marianne and Scouse Doris, that pair of pipe-smoking lesbians upstairs, have got two giraffes living in their apartment. Now far be it from me to criticise what people do in the privacy of their own homes or what sort of pets they keep. I have a little Scottie myself, who sleeps all day, and then jumps up and licks my face when I come home from work, yapping incessantly. But GIRAFFES! And not one, but TWO! And while we're on a jungle theme, this weekend I am going to renew my acquaintance with Mr Gorilla Bananas, who is on a flying visit to London for the Wimbledon ladies' final (no, he's not a flying gorilla, just a talking one). I'd better take the bananas off my hat, otherwise he'll think I have brought him a packed lunch.

Next week I shall be spending a few days in the bosom of my ancestors, courtesy of Ryanair. This is quite a momentous step, since I am half-Irish on both sides, as witnessed by my luscious auburn curls and the twinkle in my eye, but have never to this day set foot on Erin's soil. One side of the family may have taken a detour via Scotland for a few generations, but I feel myself to be a true daughter of Hibernia, with the ancient dynasty of Harridan on one side and the noble line of Blarney on the other. I am so excited, I could Riverdance all the way across the Liffey! I am going to meet My People at long last, never having got nearer to the Auld Sod than Kilburn thus far. Bejasus, begorrah, and top o' the morning, I feel like the Homecoming Queen, so I do. After a lifetime of listening fondly to the delightful musical lilt of Terry Wogan, Val Doonican, the Bachelors, Saint Bob of Geldof and countless other charmers of that ilk, I am finally returning in triumph (or in an Airbus to be truthful) to the beautiful land that my great-grandfathers left so many years ago, crossing the Irish Sea to seek a better life on Albion's shores. From now on, I will of course wear green, drink Guinness and learn to play the spoons. I always felt a certain affinity with Mrs Doyle, Father Ted's housekeeper. If I should spot a priest, I will have to restrain myself from offering him a cup of tea.

THE TAG STOPS HERE

Oh for God's sake. I was only discussing the other night what to do if I was tagged. I'm the sort of person who ruthlessly deletes those "pass this on to ten other people or else you'll have bad luck for seven years" round robins. I shake my fist at superstition. I laugh in the face of the gods. I just don't care. I'll take you all down with me.

But the tag came from Aunty Marianne, via Scouse Doris. And I AM scared of Aunty Marianne. So all right then, here goes.

Each player must post these rules first. 2. Each player starts with eight random facts/habits about themselves. 3. People who are tagged need to write their own blog about their eight things and post these rules. 4. At the end of your blog, you need to choose eight people to get tagged and list their names. 5. Don’t forget to leave them a comment telling them they’re tagged, and to read your blog.

1. I got rhythm.

2. I get no kick from champagne.

3. I am from a literary family.

4. I think sex is overrated.

5. Paris still makes me go "oooh la la".

6. I had a perfect marriage with my late husband.

7. I am a bit of a bossyboots.

8. I would like a simple funeral.


I would now like to tag: Angelina Jolie, Ian Hislop, Prince William, Rupert Murdoch, the Dalai Lama, Peter Mandelson, Sir Mick Jagger, and Nelson Mandela.

I think I've got the hang of this tagging thing now.