‘Nixon was a professional politician, and I despised everything he stood for — but if he were running for president this year against the evil Bush-Cheney gang, I would happily vote for him. You bet. Richard Nixon would be my Man. He was a crook and a creep and a gin-sot, but on some nights, when he would get hammered and wander around in the streets, he was fun to hang out with. He would wear a silk sweat suit and pull a stocking down over his face so nobody could recognize him. Then we would get in a cab and cruise down to the Watergate Hotel, just for laughs.’

‘He truly believes he’s on a mission from God. Absolute faith like that overwhelms a need for analysis. The whole thing about faith is to believe things for which there is no empirical evidence. But you can’t run the world on faith.’

‘The aide said that guys like me were “in what we call the reality-based community,” which he defined as people who “believe that solutions emerge from your judicious study of discernible reality.” I nodded and murmured something about enlightenment principles and empiricism. He cut me off. “That’s not the way the world really works anymore,” he continued. “We’re an empire now, and when we act, we create our own reality. And while you’re studying that reality – judiciously, as you will – we’ll act again, creating other new realities, which you can study too, and that’s how things will sort out. We’re history’s actors . . . and you, all of you, will be left to just study what we do.”‘

‘”We have a transvestite at our school,” I repeated. Only Susie heard me. “No!” she screamed. “Did you hear what he said? A transvestite works at his school!” She turned to me in horror. “Is he allowed to dress like a woman?” Now I had everyone’s attention. “Oh, yeah,” I said. “Totally normal guy, except that at some point, he started reading all kinds of . . . ” “Books!” Susie guessed. “It’s called possession,” her husband said. “Yeah, books,” I said. “It started… he was reading Agatha Christie books at first, then he got really into detectives. Next thing you know, he’s reading Nietzsche. You know, the German philosopher.” “The weirdo German!” Susie exclaimed. Everyone was staring at me in shock.”And he comes up to me one day and says, you know, ‘Well, since there’s no God, I might as well be gay!’ ” “Oh, my God,” her husband whispered.’

‘Yes, I was there when the cloud of death swirled round the prime minister. Heavens, we were scared. One or two of us actually left the Chamber, humming loudly to ourselves so as to sound relaxed. If it had been anthrax, or ricin, or sarin, or even blackcurrant flavoured sherbet dabs, it could have been a disaster for hundreds. But only a minority wanted to leave. I thought, this is daft, so I walked straight back into the press gallery. I was proud of my colleagues. As attendants yelled at us to get out, we stood milling around trying see it all. These people were risking their lives to bring news to their readers, or at least a jokey paragraph.’

‘Over the decade and a half that Brown has endured as a publicly recognised prime minister-in-waiting, he has been variously portrayed by the restless British press as dour, witty; passionate, nerdy; impatient; a long-term strategist, a lover of short-term crises; good on detail, bad on detail; a delegator, a control freak; a bully, an inspiring boss; a bearer of grudges; tough, cowardly; content, “psychologically flawed”; a secret socialist, an ultra-capitalist; a Europhile, a Eurosceptic; an idealiser of America, an unofficial Scottish nationalist; a political genius, a political liability; an instinctive politician, a machine politician; an intellectual; anti-establishment, socially conservative; pro-feminist and laddish. Most long-serving politicians acquire complicated reputations, but Brown’s is one of the knottiest.’

• As Morticians Gather, Blair Turns To The Cheese … ‘[Blair] always walks out in front of us with a great big cheesy smile on his face. I know that smile. It means: “I hate the lot of you bastards” – and who can blame him? We’re all on deathwatch. He must feel like a man in hospital who gets a visit from a polite but inquisitive class of trainee morticians.’
• Bouncing Ken Brings The House Down … ‘You could ever call Mr Clarke white. His face and hands were the colour of brick, a terrific testimony to the preservative powers of pints of ale, cigarillos, and late night sessions in Ronnie Scott’s jazz club. More than a decade ago Alan Clark called him “a puffball … that pudgy life-insurance risk,” but Clark died in 1999 and Ken remains with us, pudgier than ever but still defying the actuaries. He didn’t so much approach the dispatch box as bounce up, like a space hopper in a collar and tie.’