MONDAY OFF this mortal coil has shuffled my old chum, John Mortimer. Like snaw off a dyke, they're melting. I thought Mr M might have hung on to hear that Guantanamo Bay was no more but, alas, he didnae.

Was he the original champagne socialist? He may well have been, though if he had to choose, he would always surely have gone for the champagne over the socialism. I cannot recall ever seeing him without a glass of bubbly stuff in his hand. Shares of it must be tumbling as I write. Why he liked it so much is a mystery, champagne not being one of those drinks you would have thought was made for excessive tippling throughout the day. My guess is that it suited his temperament for, whatever it else it does, it cheers you up. It is the drink of choice of an optimist, as indeed was Mr Mortimer, and as are villains, many of whom he defended against all odds. No deterrent will ever persuade them against optimism, however. For, as Mr Mortimer noted: "In the days when you could be hanged for stealing a handkerchief, handkerchiefs were hardly safe in anyone's pocket." TUESDAY FEARS are growing that my dear friend Anguish MacLeod, a raving pundit, may be about to spontaneously combust. Mr Anguish was seen yesterday in the environs of Holyrood with steam pouring from his lugs and what was left of his locks being torn from his heid by his own hand.

For some reason he seems to believe that "it can only be a matter of time before Barack Obama is invited by someone at Holyrood to learn the words of My Grannie's Heilan' Hame". What prompted this insane train of thought, apparently, is Mr Anguish's belief that our politicians and the McMeeja is never happier than when insinuating the best wee fat country on the planet into global stories.

One such, chuntered Mr Anguish, concerned Darwin, who was a student at Edinburgh University, allowing some to suggest that there would have been no Origin of Species had he not spent a couple of years in Scotland. Sir Anguish, the history of whose evolution one dare not speculate upon, said this was poppycock.

But why? It is entirely possible that while Mr Darwin was in Edinburgh he became acquainted with the work of James Hutton, the genius geologist, whose theories about the formation of the earth depended heavily on his study of rock formations at Torness in East Lothian.

Might that not have influenced Mr Darwin's thinking on evolution? Thinking, sadly, is not something Mr Anguish is very keen on.

Another subject of his ire is Our Rabbie who, he says, we praise too uncritically, thus making us a laughing stock.

"Do we take seriously Italians who say that Dante is the best or Germans who say that Goethe has no rival...?" Actually, Mr Anguish, we do. WEDNESDAY I guess you had to be there. I refer, of course, to the inauguration shindig in Washington of my dear friend and kinsman, Barack Ohmigodhe'sblack. If I may speak personally for a moment, the entertainment on offer was not a patch on what Queen Tupperware and myself were used to expect from the likes of messrs Cannon and Ball, Tarbie, Brucie and the like at the Royal Command Performance. I ask you!

A poet who couldn't write, a singer who couldn't sing and musicians too cold to strum their notes! Not good.

Nor was Mr Ohmigodhe'sblack's own performance worthy of an ovation. One can only imagine what the reaction would have been had his predecessor, Mr Dubya, fluffed his lines when repeating the presidential oath. As it was, the blame has been offloaded on to his prompter, the chief justice, John Roberts, who, said Christopher Hitchens, the dipsomaniac scribe, had suffered a "petit mal", ie "a brief disturbance of brain function due to abnormal electrical activity".

I, however, was more interested in Ms Ohmigodshe'sblack's apparel, knowing that if it was in any way dodgy there would be hell to pay. And there was. One nasty female blogger said Mrs O's outfit made her look pregnant, while a stick insect in an upmarket blatt wrote that the cut of the dress "broke the cardinal rule of all clothes" by making Mrs O look not slimmer but fatter. Would a mere man have got away with saying as much? THURSDAY SHALL I ever tire of reminding you that The Times, a rag, recently asked whether Sir Fwed the Shred, erstwhile chief exec of Royal Bank of Scotland, was the world's best bwanker?

Today it wonders whether he's the world's worst. That, surely, would be the view of countless of his former employees who, when you mention his name, affect the expression of a drunk in Sauchiehall Street on Saturday night immediately before he deposits the contents of his stomach on an innocent pavement.

In the rush to condemn bankers it is worth remembering that many RBS staff far further down the feeding chain than Sir Fwed have in the last few days watched in horror as their nest eggs and pensions, tied up in shares which they were encouraged to accept as their annual bonus, have disappeared. Just, coincidentally, as Sir Fwed has himself.

Not that one would wish it any other way. I fear, though, that that may not be the case. There are already suggestions that he may be preparing a comeback, with a role in Formula One, on the sponsorship of which he spent oodles of his customers' dosh, not least because he is a "petrolhead".

Now, I hear, the beneficiaries of this largesse - Sir Bernie Ecclescake and Max Sado-Mosley - are considering a role for Sir Fwed. May I humbly suggest the pits as an ideal place for him to be deposited? FRIDAY THREE cheers for Radio 4 which throughout the week has been broadcasting an adaptation of A Prayer for Owen Meany, the classic novel written by my old chum, John Irving. Even better would have been Mr Irving reading the story himself. Unlike many writers who, when they read their own work, sound as appealing as a pneumatic drill, Mr Irving has a hypnotic effect on his listeners.

At the Edinburgh Book Fest a few years ago I got him to read the passage in the novel when Owen, in his high-pitched, squeaky, spooky voice, tells his best mate: "YOUR MOTHER HAS THE BEST BREASTS OF ALL THE MOTHERS." You could have heard a wasp cough.

Mr Irving and I have history. Once, at his home in Vermont, where he has a gym in which he pursues his obsession with wrestling, he did something painful where it hurts most and he asked if I would help him fit a truss. I declined, politely but firmly.

His most recent novel, Until I Find You, is set among the seamier parts of our craggy capital. A stickler for research, Mr Irving requested I take him on a guided tour, including those areas in which prostitutes hang out.

Why he thought I would know anything about such things I can't say. I showed him - the outsides! - of a few saunas and he, like sundry hacks I have encountered, could not quite believe that they were in fact brothels. He showed no inclination to enter any of them.

Not so another dear female friend who, when working at the Hootsmon, decided that what she really needed on a bone-chilling day was a sauna. As the underclad dame in reception tried to persuade her that this was a bad idea, my dear friend finally came to her senses when an agitated bloke in a dirty mac brushed past.

Whereupon she, in the time-honoured manner, made her excuses and left. IN Jonathan Dwoss, who has risen like the phoenix, to enquire of Tom Cruise whether he f**** in bed. OUT Tommy Sheridan, ejected from the Big Brother household before final voting. His next scheduled appearance will be before a beak in his ongoing stushie with the News of the Screws. SHAKE IT ALL ABOUT Kate Winslet has been twice nominated for an Oscar. If one Winslet wins, should she commiserate in her acceptance speech with the Winslet that doesn't?

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