So what are you REALLY doing now?

Yesterday I had lunch with my partner in a firm that runs events in a few countries, together with a lady friend he wanted me to meet.

The excuse was to discuss an idea she has had for an online community which I think is frankly brilliant. So we met at the Frontline Restaurant off Praed Street, which I thoroughly recommend. The wine list is superb, the food excellent.

The restaurant has fond associations for me, because across the road in one direction is the office where 40 odd years ago I got much of my education in direct marketing and a few other things, whilst in another is a porn shop whose owner at around the same time asked me if I'd like to pose for some dirty photos.

I refused because I felt I wouldn't be able to rise to the occasion. At the time I thought it was a great career opportunity lost, but I was quite right. I can tell you from subsequent experience that it's very, very difficult. Anyone who can get a stiffy to order without chemical assistance when someone says "lights, camera, action" gets my complete admiration.

Anyhow, being not only startlingly attractive but clever, my partner's friend had taken the trouble to read this blog before meeting, and when I admitted that many of the entries are written at highly unsociable hours, she said, "I can tell!"

So that is why there are so many typos, gentle reader.

But this entry was prompted by that question they have on those social networking sites that says, "What are you doing now?" I have no idea why so many of us are prompted to tell this to the world, especially as for the most part the answers are unspeakably banal and clearly omit many of the most common human activities, as in "Having a wank" or "About to take a dump" or "Farting uncontrollably" not to mention "Picking my nose",

Apart from all the above, what I have been doing recently is reading a biography of Silvio Berlusconi, Mr. and Mrs. Bliars' good friend. He is the chap who runs and owns a fair percentage of Italy. Every time I moan about the Fat Haggis or the Bliar my radiant partner who is Italian only has to say: "Berlusconi" in a menacing way to shut me up.

The book really does make the point that compared to Silvio our lot are a bunch of boy scouts (those are the people Obama had more time for than the Haggis yesterday). Berlusconi was clearly closely associated with, helpful to and funded by the Mafia to the tune of at least three hundred billion lire - either that or he found the money in a paper bag someone left in a public toilet by accident.

He's only running Italy instead of being in jail because he's repeatedly managed to rig the law in his favour, and his skill at bribing judges is one reason why Mr. Mills, "estranged" husband of our Olympics Minister, Tessa Jowls, has been sentenced to jail. I bet he never serves a day.

Incidentally, for those of you who think I'm really a secret agent for the Tory party, I spent a fair bit of time over the last few days reflecting on how all those mawkish pictures of David Cameron cradling his dead son got into the papers. Is there nothing politicians won't do to win votes? And why do our crapulous media make it so easy for them?