Come rain or shine

On Wednesday evening Mary and I went to the opening of Ken Done's exhibition at the new Rebecca Hossack Gallery on Conway Street. Ken has a wonderful new set of paintings from Sydney, and an unexpected group from Japan. It's well worth a visit, and it was great to see him on such top form.

We went on to the Portillo's summer party, which started in sunshine and ended in rain. The talk was of Quentin Davies's defection to the Labour party, and the fact that Ed Balls, the new Children, Schools and Families Secretary, was letting everybody know there were others to follow. A former Cabinet minister expressed the view that a) if there was a defection we'd know about it by tomorrow, b) it's possible whoever was thinking of defecting has changed their mind and c) there never was anyone else who was going to defect, but Mr Balls was sucessfully creating havoc in the Tory ranks. No doubt all of us will know which it is by Monday. Michael and Carolyn always have fascinating guests drawn from a wide circle, not least Lord Bernard Donoughue who claims to have been new labour before Tony Blair, Sir Christopher Meyer's wife who has given up looking for a Tory seat, and Nick Ross who claims to be 59 but looks about 35 (even with one or two grey hairs). Nick interestingly revealed that he wasn't currently looking for another tv job, but was considering other options.

From there we went on to a dinner party at the Royal Academy (my third visit to the Summer Exhibition). I very much enjoyed the sculptures by Bryan Kneale RA, but my favourite was the veiled woman by Don Brown (NFS). During dinner, I sat next to an Italian who is the chief investment adviser for Scottish Widows and has lived in London for the past two decades. How interesting to meet a man born in the most beautiful country on earth who wants to spend his life in England. Very flattering. I told him I was in love with the Scottish Widow in her long black cape, and he courteously pointed out that there had been four of them in the past 20 years. Oh well, perhaps I've been in love with them all. Mary sat next to Lord Crisp, so they naturally chatted about the NHS and whether Patricia Hewitt would survive - she didn't. Mary now has a new boss.

The man I still call Chairman

Mary and I had lunch with Norman and Margaret Tebbitt this week. Always fun to discuss the Thatcher years, and the minor role I played and the major role Norman played at that time. Margaret of course is in a wheelchair and a constant reminder of the IRA bomb in Brighton in 1984. I can only admire her fortitude and stoicism. Two heroic figures who were made constantly aware of how popular they are by others coming up to wish them both well.

Norman reminded me that he put me in charge of the marginal seats for the 1987 general election, and I reminded him that there were 60 such seats, and we won 59 of them. "Pathetic Archer," he said, "you'll have to try harder." He's lost none of his spirit and is currently considering writing a book, actually two books, of such contrast that he hasn't made up his mind which one to embark on first.

Ian Wooldridge

Yesterday I attended the thanksgiving service for the life of Ian Wooldridge, arguably the most talented sports writer of his generation. The service was held in the Guards Chapel at Wellington Barracks, which holds about 1200, and there wasn't a seat in the house, in fact people were standing at the back. It was one of those rare occasions at a memorial service for a journalist, where real people vastly outnumbered the journalists. This was because Ian was one of those people who everybody enjoyed being with. His love and knowledge of sport (in particular cricket, golf and athletics - in fact it was through athletics that we first met some forty years ago) would keep you entertained long into the night. He went on writing his famous column for the Daily Mail right up until a few days before his death, and although he had strong views on so many subjects, he never showed an ounce of envy, bitterness or unkindness towards his fellow men. He remained absolutely loyal to me during my times of trouble, and once reported in his column that Jeffrey is the only friend I have who doesn't drink and is in bed by 10.30pm. He will be sadly missed by his friends and by the millions of people who read his column every week.

Kit Kat Club

The Kit Kat Club held their summer party at Dartmouth House on Monday evening. The club is full of women who have become chairman or a director of their companies before the age of 40, so you know even before you arrive you'd better be on sharp form otherwise some bright young woman will shred you. The club is always courteous enough to invite its past speakers, so if you don't get shredded by a feisty woman you get put on the spot by one of them - can Cameron win the next election (looking less likely), what do you think of Brown (not to be underestimated), have you read On Chesil Beach (yes), have you seen Kean (yes), have you been to the Turner exhibition at the Tate (not yet) . I escaped around 9pm, not shredded, but slightly battered.

All the fun of the fete

On Saturday I opened a fete for Scope at Meldreth Manor, a school that takes care of children with cerebral palsy. I'm always overwhelmed by these occasions, because it only takes a few seconds to realise the dedication and hard work that is put in, not only by the staff, but by the parents who live daily with their childrens' disability. Meldreth Manor takes care of some 70 children, and I certainly came away feeling that they were relaxed and happy in their environment. One of the governors asked me to place on record very firmly that children with cerebral palsy do not have the same human rights as other children when they apply for places at mainstream schools, and are often turned down without the school having to give a reason.

There were the usual dozens of stalls raising money for the charity, along with morris dancing and a small petting zoo, and the gods were kind - the sun came out at noon and shone until well after I left two hours later.

World Cup winners

Last night I went to Billingsgate on the site of the old fish market to join Ben Cohen and 600 other guests for his testimonial dinner. Ben of course was a member of the 2003 world cup winning rugby team, and he was joined by his uncle, George Cohen, a member of the 1966 World Cup wiining team. The Q&A session had on stage Martin Johnson, Matt Dawson, Ben and George Cohen, Martin Peters and the legendary goalkeeper Gordon Banks who told the audience about his famous save when Pele was standing only a few yards in front of him.

I conducted the auction on behalf of the Warwickshire & Northampton Air Ambulance and ORCHID (Fighting Male Cancer) and we raised £92,500.00 for these two very good causes. One of my three stars (never fails to give generously) Nigel Wray was in the audience (chairman of Saracens) and paid £10,000 for the rugby boots Ben Cohen wore in the world cup final. It's not that people like Nigel Wray give so generously - because people who have no money say well he can afford it can't he, which is among the most ridiculous cliches I've ever heard - it's that he turns up time and time again to support rugby players and cricketers who are coming to the end of their careers; this also applies to the amazing turnout that Ben achieved from his fellow players.

The funniest moment of the evening came during question time when Kyran Bracken (formerly England scrum half, now better known as an ice skater) was asked by a lady to poke his tongue out. This brought the audience into fits of laughter, as Mr Bracken's tongue is about twice the length of anyone elses. You have to see it to believe it. Despite this, a pair of skates signed by Kyran, only managed £2,000.

A week of art

This week Sotheby's and Christie's have their annual sales for Impressionists and Modern Art. I like to attend at least a couple of them, not only to see what's happening in the art world (prices) but also as an amateur auctioneer, to see if there are any new techniques that I ought to be thinking about. I went to Christie's on Monday evening and saw the Monet (estimte £12m) go for £18m, and several other pictures pass their high estimates. There is suddenly a new group of buyers who have arrived in the market in the last few minutes, and if the bubble bursts, we will see these pictures come back onto the market in a couple of years. Those of us who have been collecting for years can't complain, as the young turks have put considerable added value to our collections. The best picture of the evening for me was a wonderful Miro, Le Coq, which sold for £6,628,000 - almost twice its low estimate. I can remember when you could pick up a Miro for a quarter of a million. Gone are the days. And no doubt there are those old enough to remember when you could pick them up for £5,000.

I had to leave early to have dinner with Michael Beloff, who's not only one of my oldest friends, but always has a legion of stories about what's happening in the law courts and at the Olympics, where he's one of the British representatives. Such is his devotion to track and field that he'll be travelling to Osaka in Japan for the world athletics championships this summer, while I will satisfy myself by watching them on tv.

Theatre night

Went to see Antony Sher playing the title role of Kean at the Apollo Theatre. This play and even Sher's performance has had the most diverse set of reviews - some saying it's the finest thing on in London, others say don't waste your time. I left the theatre puzzled. I found the play disjointed and lacking any central theme. I had the privilege of seeing the piece with Alan Badel, 20, or was it 30 years ago, and rated it then as among the ten best theatre productions I had seen in my life. It's hard to compare Mr Sher and Alan Badel because it's so long ago that it's impossible to make a judgement, and as I'm a great admirer of Sher (Iago, Shylock, Cyrano de Bergerac), I think I'll pass on this one and simply say he gave a fine performance, but I don't know why he bothered.

Nobody's Child

I attended a reception in the Jubilee Room at the House of Commons on Wednesday evening for the launch of Father Michael Seed's autobiograhy, Nobody's Child. If you think you've got problems, you need to read this book as it will show what a normal life you're leading. And if you find it normal then you should be writing your own book. Ann Widdecombe and I were the guest speakers and Michael had a very good turnout of over a 100 friends and supporters, and I wish the book well.

I went on to the Grosvenor House Art and Antiques Fair, which I've been attending now for several years, and that in itself is a problem. The same galleries seem to have the same stands year in, year out, which gives it, like the RA summer exhibition, the feeling of been there, done that, especially if you're among those that visit several of these galleries during the year. However, if you've never been before, I can only believe it's a very worthwhile experience.

Flying doctors down under

Last night I attended a charity function on behalf of the Royal Flying Doctor Service of Australia. The service provides medical care to over 80% of a huge and sparsely populated inland region of Australia - an area larger than Western Europe. It's a well respected charity and its president is the Prince of Wales.

The principal guest was Shane Warne, who was interviewed by Mark Nicholas. Mr Warne was very funny at the expense of Merv Hughes the great fast bowler, the Australian coach who made him go on the boot camp and the removal of Mike Gatting on the first ball of his first Test Match. I conducted the auction for the RFDS in the Long Room (only holds 160) which was full of generous Australians including the High Commissioner, Richard Alston, and we raised £88,000. The most sought after item was an hour in the nets with Shane Warne bowling to you and coaching you, which went for £16,000, while an excellent painting of Sydney by Ken Done, went for £12,000. I sat next to Mark Nicholas' wife Kirsten, who embarassed me as she knows more about sport than I ever will. Mark told me that not many men who arrive home late, find their wives sitting up in bed watching the US Open. It could be Tiger Woods, Mark.

Sculpture masterclass

On Friday morning I attended the British Art sale at Christie's where I was amazed that a large Lowry oil sold for £4m. The last major Lowry, The Football Match, same size canvas, sold to the FA for £1.3m. Prices have gone mad. The wonderful Eric Gill, St Andrew casting his net, came up three lots later, and I am very proud to have added it to my collection. I believe Gill to be one of England's great sculptors, and you can curently see his Christ on on the Cross at the Tate Gallery.

On the subject of art, I had lunch yesterday with Archbishop Eugenio Sbarbaro, Apostolic Nuncio to Serbia, to talk about a problem he has with one of his hospital charities. I mentioned to him my great love of The Veiled Christ by Giuseppe Sammartino (1753), which can be seen in Naples' Sansevero Chapel.

I am of the belief that this is one of the 6 great sculptures in the world today, and ranks alongside Michelangelo, Bernini and da Vinci. The great sculptor, Antonio Canova, once said that he would give ten years of his life to have done this piece. The Archbishop had never heard of it, but to my surprise he told me that the Pope would be visiting Naples in the autumn, and he would recommend that he paid a visit to view this remarkable sculpture. If any of you should be in Naples, by all means go to Pompeii, but don't miss The Veiled Christ.

Dining and donating

I did an auction for Save the Children at Banqueting House last night, sponsored by Dechert. We were raising money for children in Tanzania who have been orphaned by HIV. The project would cost £40,000, and thanks to the generosity of those present, the evening raised just over £80,000. A bottle of whiskey signed by Tony Blair (Prime Minister today) and Gordon Brown (PM in a couple of weeks) raised £2,500.

Banqueting House in Whitehall is one of the loveliest buildings in London, famous for two things that I know of (and possibly more) - King Charles I was beheaded whilst sticking his head out of one of the windows, and for the magnificent Reubens ceiling - worth a visit just for that. The only disadvantage is that you can't park anywhere near the building, so I ended up parking my mini just off the Strand, grateful for a dry warm evening.

Summer season

Last night I attended the opening night party of the Royal Academy Summer Exhibition. Despite criticism from the press over the years, it is very difficult to change direction when there is such a great history and tradition in what you do. However, I thought the exhibition this year was great fun, with lots for the masses as well as afficionados. Of course there’s a lot of talk about the David Hockney, Bigger Trees Near Water, which is an oil on 50 canvases and takes up a complete wall. Much enjoyed. I was also very impressed by the four pieces by Professor David Mach RA, who seems to have given us an advance on Warhol by painting the iconic figures in so much more detail, dare I say because he’s a better artist.

I have said over the years that the point of getting to the RA is that you can usually pick up something of high quality at a sensible price, usually when the artist is unknown. My example this year is the excellent piece by Matthew Chambers, called Crescent - a ceramic at a cost of £900. Because I was attending a 25th Wedding Anniversary party at the House of Commons - at which I left my wife - I didn’t get to the RA in time to buy it myself and to my annoyance found a red dot glaring at me. Professor Ken Howard RA, one of our finest painters, has 6 oils in the show this year, and I am unable to write on this blog what his wife Dora told me about the one of him in the nude, which certainly caused a lot of interest.

One of the departments that rarely gets high praise, but deserves it, is architecture, possibly because it’s not always considered to be art. But Gallery VI has some very exciting models of major buildings, including Lord Foster's Campus de la Justicia Madrid, which shows him at his best, but his old rival, Lord Rogers fights back with an amazing working model of the roof section of the new terminal at Madrid. One of the sad things about architecture is that there is rarely anything for sale. Putting aside these great names and remembering my love of the theatre and sport, I was fascinated by The Roundhouse, Camden by John McAslan & Partners and a print of the Olympic Velodrome by Stefanie Hicki.

If you really want to see the works, you have to get there early in the morning otherwise you spend most of your time waiting for the crowd in front of you to move on before you can get to see the paintings - not a problem at the opening, as it's always filled with beautiful women looking inwards, and not so beautiful men looking at them, which allows art nuts like myself to look at the pictures.

Bling Bling

Yesterday I decided to visit Damien Hirst's exhibition at the White Cube Gallery. Mr Hirst is a brilliant publicist of his work, but then to be fair so were Picasso and Dali. The highlight of the exhibition for me was not For Love of God, the diamond covered skull, but a dove suspended in one of his tanks - quite brilliant. The visit to the skull (cost £4m, price £50m), is achieved by acquiring free tickets from two delightful ladies and then standing in a queue to be met by four burly security guards. After not too long a wait, you are escorted upstairs by more guards and taken into a darkened room where the skull is in a case of its own for you to admire. You are allowed at least 3 minutes to study it before you are turfed out. I thought it was spectacular, although there is an Eric Gill called St Andrew Casting His Net at Christies at £60,000, in other words, roughly a thousandth of the price, which I confess I would prefer to own.

More than a game

Sir John Major very kindly sent me his book, More Than A Game, which arrived on my desk only hours before I was due to leave for Dubai. Wonderful timing, as I was able to take it on board the Crystal Symphony where Mary and I were spending two weeks travelling from Dubai to Rome and several ports in between (more on this later).

John's book claims to be the story of cricket's early years, but it is far more than that, as it is his own personal look at Britain and in particular England, during that time, with cricket as the background. For those of us who love the game, it's an absolute must - informative, well-written and a page-turner at the same time. I thoroughly recommend it, but I am bound to say, if you're a serious cricket afficionado, you should buy it in hardback. It always surprised me that Margatet Thatcher and John Major, having had highly successful sales of their memoirs in hardback, did less well in paperback, clearly most people wanted to add these books to their libraries. I believe this falls in the same category. Incidentally, because lesser mortals rarely receive the praise they deserve, the book has one of the best covers I've seen in a long time, and I congratulate the designer.

John of course is incapable of hiding his love of the game and his willingness to forgive a man who can score a century or take 10 wickets in a match even if they've committed a double murder. Nevertheless, however desperately he tries to paint W G Grace - who he describes as the man who did more to advance cricket than anyone, including Bradman - as a worthy figure, I am bound to say that after reading Major's words, I came out thinking what a thoroughly unpleasant piece of work W G must have been - a man whose ego appeared to be as huge as his talent. However read on, because there is so much more in this book for cricket lovers to savour.