There's nothing as ex as an ex-minister

THE most wince-making moment in Malcolm Rifkind's chat with bogus lobbyists is when he declares that, because he is a former foreign secretary, he can arrange "useful access" to ambassadors everywhere. I doubt it. There is nothing as ex as an ex-minister. Ambassadors want to talk to today's supremo, not yesterday's man. Messrs Rifkind and Straw might get invited to the ambassador's party – but only to hand out the sweeties. Why, Malcolm, you are spoiling us with these Ferrero Rocher . . .

CURIOUS that Auntie Beeb, in A Cook Abroad: Monica Galetti's France (BBC2), chose to endorse one of the newest and most unpleasant forms of hunting. You don't have to be a bunny-hugger to be horrified. I bet most British fox hunters would turn up their noses at the practice of fencing off a few acres and allowing packs of dogs to chase and savage a terrified boar, which is then stabbed to death by a particularly brave Frenchman with a knife. There is no escape, and no excuse. A French animal charity has denounced such hunts as "an act of cruelty and barbarity" and Galetti was sickened by what she witnessed. Even so, the chef helped butcher and cook the unfortunate animal.

A CORRESPONDENT takes me to task for describing the Labour leader as "Weird Ed" . He brandishes the International Federation of Journalists' Declaration of Principles on the Conduct of Journalists and demands to know where is my proof that Ed Miliband is indeed weird? Well, for starters, there are 1.8 million Google references to "Ed Miliband" and "weird". Secondly, in an online poll of young voters, 51 per cent thought the Labour leader was weird. Thirdly, how many non-weird people stab their own brother in the back to advance their career?

AND another thing. If my reader objects to the term "Weird Ed," why doesn't he object to my calling the Mayor of London "Bonkers Boris"?

THINGS to do on a rainy day. I picked up an old, much-thumbed copy of Three Men in a Boat by Jerome K Jerome which fell open at the tale of the great German singer Herr Slossenn Boschen. It is too long to explain here but is one of the funniest anecdotes in the English language. But when you read it, because the language is so polished, you tend to assume the writer was a middle-class Londoner with a posh accent. Jerome was born in Walsall and, to his dying day, spoke with what one observer called "a Black Country snarl."

I WROTE recently about pots calling kettles black in the media and how few media organisations are sqeaky-clean. But I think we can all enjoy a good tut-tut at the Daily Mail which a few days ago carried a picture on page three of Coleen Rooney wearing "£800,000 of bling . . . .on the Beach!" If the beach muggers of Barbados didn't get the message, they had only to turn over to page five to find a crime report headlined: "Terror of TV chef as raiders tore £12K Rolex from her wrist." Responsible journalism at its finest.

FOR 800 years the Black Death has been blamed on rats. Now, scientists in Norway believe the plague was spread by gerbils, not rats. We are collectively guilty of eight centuries of historic rat abuse. It is time for royal pardons, an apology in Parliament, compensation and a full public inquiry with a sympathetic chairman. Over to you, Roland.