Why should Michael Fabricant be described as the "Bio-MP for Lichfield"? Does it mean that if left in the ground he will degrade quickly and harmlessly? I found that on his Twitter site, the link forwarded by a colleague. As an open-minded Luddite I often think carefully about joining these online networks before deciding, no, why waste the time? (There are some upmarket Facebook-type sites now which you're supposed to join, not to share pictures of yourself in a state of inebriation, but to discuss the arts, the economy and the future of the planet. I can't be doing with them either.)
Anyhow, Michael is now redubbed "Mike". The headline on top is: "Hey, there, Mike Fabricant is using Twitter!" Well, hold the home page! We learn that on 16 February he was having a coffee while his car was having a part fitted. He ponders a trip home through the snow. "Will I make it, or will the points be frozen?" In January he has lunch planned with David Cameron. "I will be sparkling, but not too much!" Don't know how the lunch went, and he doesn't tell us what Cameron said. Perhaps he overdid the sparkle and the leader just fled. Sadness comes on 8 February: "I shall miss the Archers omnibus."
Poor Mike, always missing the bus. I don't think I will join Twitter. It's as if instead of doing the parliamentary sketch, I were to write: "Having a cup of tea in the office here, and enjoying some of Allegra Stratton's home-made cake! Might go to the toilet later!"
A friend points out that "Bio" merely means Mike's biography - how disappointing.
I suppose a diary is the traditional form of twittering, especially as these days they are usually meant to be published. One of the best I've read lately is Chris Mullin's, which has the dull title of A View from the Foothills (Profile, £20) but which is actually fascinating. Mullin might have been only a backbencher, and for two spells a very junior minister, but he saw a lot of Blair, in particular during the lead-in to the invasion of Iraq.
There are loads of personal insights too, of the kind which are not just gossip but illuminate the whole process. John Prescott, holding a ministerial meeting by ranting while slumped in an easy chair with one leg hooked over the arm, wearing odd shoes. (A civil servant was sent out to bring a bag full of random footwear in the hope that some would fit.)
Tony Benn, increasingly dotty, almost setting fire to Mullin's house when he leaves a pipe smouldering in his pocket. George Bush waving cheerily and inexplicably at him at the Foreign Office ("I told him you were one of his greatest fans," the mischievous Blair says later). And the Queen, cunningly defusing her husband who was haranguing a group of young English women in Nigeria.
"You're not teachers? What are you then?"
"Well, sir, we empower people."
That set him off. "EMPOWER? Doesn't sound like English to me!"
By now, the Queen, having noticed that trouble is brewing, points vaguely over the balcony. "Look ... look at the pottery."
The Duke breaks off to look. Mullin peers down later and sees that there is no pottery.
These are the sharpest and most revealing political diaries since Alan Clark's.
I quoted Mullin to a Labour party meeting in south London which a friend had asked me to address. (Actually I didn't know quite what to say, since all the news, from a national or party view, is terrible, so I started with GK Chesterton's great lines, "I tell you naught for your comfort / Yea, naught for your desire / Save that the sky grows darker yet / And the sea rises higher." So that got us off to a cheery start.)
My impression is that Labour party workers feel bewildered, that few of them know what is going on (do any of us?) and nobody feels inclined to tell them. They are distressed to see power in this country draining away from the MPs they work hard to elect. One questioner, Tom Snow, who turned out to be the brother of Jon, felt that newspapers were becoming the focus of the kind of debate and pressure that parliament used to exercise. To sum up the mood, many felt it was a bleak day that a column in the Guardian - the paper most of them read, you won't be surprised to learn - was more influential than an elected representative. I didn't really have an answer, except to say that I'm not sure about George Monbiot's campaign against Agas.
With the stockmarket slumping it seemed a good day to visit the City of London. My guide was Peter Rees, the chief planning officer, who adores the place and who can take much of the credit for its present extraordinary and beguiling architectural jumble. Modern buildings - the more recent, like the Gherkin, are fabulous - blend happily with the Georgian and Victorian piles, and the innumerable Wren churches.
Rees loves the tiny alleyways, passages and ginnels which link the main streets and squares. Gossip is the lifeblood of financial life, he says, and these are the veins, running past pubs, coffee shops, cafes and sandwich bars. The City's life began in the 17th century when the pubs acted as banks - a fact still reflected in their symbols, or logos: Barclay originally banked at the Spread Eagle, Lloyd at the Black Horse. I suppose HSBC and RBS, with their stupid arrows and triangles, were founded at the Grossly Overpaid Design Consultant.
Rees is especially proud of a Norman Foster building which he obliged to be designed so that it curved round an old tree. We went up to the 43rd floor of the tower in the Barbican centre, and saw the whole higgledy-piggledy sprawl beneath us. And not a single broker hurling himself into space. Yet.