Come fly with me.

Tony telling it like it is

Reports that Tony Blair 'has' a Bombardier Global Express  called "Blair Force One " to trot around the world are wide of the mark. He doesn't own it anymore than you or I own a black cab. He rents it, as anyone can if their pockets are deep enough. You can't blame him can you? For £7,000 an hour you get to travel uber-class. Pull up to the jet at a private terminal in your limo. No long hike from the car park. No queuing for check-in. No queuing for security. No waiting at the boarding gate. No waiting for 175 other passengers to board. No inedible food. No traipsing through endless corridors after landing. No queuing for immigration at the end of a long day. No lost luggage. No stress. Just luxury, security, privacy and convenience. You're not a politician anymore, you're a rockstar. With a livery and interior (double bed and shower - settle!) to grace a playboy's mansion, this is a £30m intercontinental love rocket. You're rubbing shoulders with all the gang - Bono, Tiger, Hef, Branson. No more cheese sarnies with Gordon, another slug of Cristal please.

But the poison in the well is this. The UK's obsession with 'youth' in politics has had a disastrous effect on our political elites. 30 years ago, a retiring prime minister would be at the end of their working life. You wrote the memoirs, sat in the Lords, bathed in applause at your party conference.
Trust Me I'm Tony changed all that. They're out on their ear in the early 50's now, at the height of the ambition and potential. Outgoing prime ministers and their henchmen can now use the office as a springboard to the Big Time. A big player, a Mr Fixit on the world stage, raking in the wonga that  would make an NHS boss go weak at the knees. Surely, though, that wouldn't affect their judgement and policy decisions in office? Would it? The template has been set.

The Beauty Parade

Pickles (right) with  Boris The Beautiful

If politics is showbiz for ugly people, Eric Pickles is a three-time Oscar winner.
Our beloved Secretary of State for Communities and Local Government fell off that plug-ugly tree and hit every branch on the way down. No stranger to the dessert trolley, Pickles is a fat, piggy-faced, dollop of a bloke who nonetheless seems quite happy in that large expanse of skin he inhabits. In the telegenic tyranny that is the Westminster image factory, Our Eric has been rejected by quality control.
But is he on to something quite profound? Many observers accept there is a yawning chasm between the image promise and reality delivery of our politicians. The public know it,
the media know it, even if they themselves don't. Dave, Nick, and Ed are a bunch of phonies.
The Holy Grail of Authenticity is sought by many, found by few. Boris is onto this as well. He could comb his hair, but chooses not to. After all, no-one wants to look like Michael Fabricant. 
He relishes the gaffe-prone, bumbling schoolboy late-for-double-algebra-but-hot-and-bothered-because-he-forgot-his-homework look. He looks authentic, even if he isn't. Nigel Farage is home and dry on this one. Scratch Nigel, underneath you see Farage.  MPs like Kate Hoey, Paul Flynn and Douglas Carswell. The late Robin Cook (The Guv'nor of Gurn) all authentic people and good MPs, but photogenic, err, not quite. German politics has just returned their own frumpy hausfrau, Angela Merkel for a record third term. And American electors said no thanks to the uber-chiseled B-movie creepster, Mitt Romney. So in the calm and quiet of the next voting booth, vote for the ugly one. 
Eric Pickles has to be the real thing. You wouldn't manufacture a politician to look like that.

Inside Pippaworld. Despatches from the front line.

"As a freelance investigative journalist, I think it's very important to be happy. Without masses of inner peace and calm, the love of a supportive and ambitious family, and a network of rather dazzlingly funny and rich friends, my job would be, well, just that. A job. Wearing the right outfit is another must. Whether I'm digging deep into corporate malfeasance, analysing legal documents, tax records, government or regulatory reports, or interviewing the latest trending whistleblower, my look is vital. Whether it's a royal blue tuxedo-style blazer, or trusty Alice Temperley summer dress, I'll always be armed with my Modalu clutch bag and Jimmy Choos. You just can't take chances. I'm currently working on an expose of the US military-industrial complex's subversion of human rights in sub-Saharan Africa, so you can appreciate the wardrobe implications for that!
And then, after lunch, it's off to a dizzying round of charity events that caring people have to be seen at. Pip Pip!" You can see more Pippa journalistic missions at http://www.telegraph.co.uk/lifestyle/10335879/Pippa-Middleton-its-bliss-to-be-up-early-for-a-flower-market.html

Dezza v Prezza. Seconds out!

Prezza aims for a Chow Mein, but misses

Weasel Watchers, mark this Friday's IPCC report in red ink. It'll offer up Weasel Fest of heroic proportions. A right old punch up between Global Warming Alarmists (those who believe man made carbon emissions are heating up the planet and threatening our very survival), and Global Warming Sceptics (those who think the former are talking crap). The Inter-governmental Panel on Climate Change (made up of world Alarmists, great and good) has for years scared the shit out of us with blood curdling prophesies we're killing the planet. Cars, planes, people farting etc. You know, all the stuff that makes life worth living. To prove it, they've bombarded us with salvoes of statistics, graphs, reports, marshalling armies of brainy, but life-affirming, people from the Guardian and the BBC, to Al Gore, Sting, Bono, Prince Charles,Tony Blair, even the noble Baron Prescott of Kyoto. Set against these titans of the modern age, are sceptics like James Delingpole. A skinny little guy with glasses. He reckons the Alarmists are bunch of globalist shysters, troughers, phonies and research grant scroungers. And on Friday, he just might be proved right. The IPCC are expected to report, hidden in the undergrowth of the small print, that their statistics and models they base the climate horror stories on, are all, err….umm….ahem, not quite as accurate as they thought.
Bet on the Weasel Wordsmiths working triple overtime to spin the story their way
to prove otherwise.
People like James are missing a trick. Most of us can't stomach the facts or the fiction of the debate anymore. We're too busy driving cars and flying on planes to Climate Change conferences/symposiums/summits and then farting like troopers, to take it all in. What we need is a visceral, red blooded, dook out, mano a mano, Dezza v Prezza, Saturday night, after the lottery draw. So muscle up Jimmy Boy, get your gumshield in, and beat the crap out of that Chow Mein guzzling blubber-monster. We'd love you for it and we'd get the point.

Delingpole in training

Stretching the imagination

Out of the chaos and jubilation of the fall of the Berlin wall in 1989, many positives emerged.

Trabant pre-1989

Freedom for millions, families re-united.  The dictator Honecker booted out. Eastern Europe liberated, and an end to the Cold War. But the pinnacle by far for all sane men and women, was the elevation of the  GDR's Trabant to cult status. This crap-hound of a car is the most powerful proof Soviet socialism was an affront to every possible human dignity.  A 600cc, 26 hp dustbin with a top speed of, wait for it, 62 mph. The Trabant engineer's motto was: "Fewer parts means less trouble". It didn't have a fuel gauge - you had to guess how many miles you had driven, and then do the math. Despite its faults, or perhaps because of them, it was loved and is still loved in Berlin. And how. Capitalism has taken this dog by the scruff of the neck, and shaken it into a Best In Show with a 26 ft "stretch" Trabbi that defies reality. These beauties grace the Unter Den Linden and the Brandenburg gate with effortless élan. BMW 3 series - I don't think so. Totalitarian communism meets Las Vegas bling.  Achtung Baby !

The bling version in Berlin 21 Sep, 2013

Kenya - welcome to the modern world

Kenya. A terrible attack on innocent people of all races and religions. But the cruel fact is Al Qaeda and its affiliates like Al-Shabaab, have cottoned on to a powerful idea. Target shopping malls because they're easy, soft targets. Kill westerners, get worldwide publicity. Hit businesses hard for very low cost. Our leaders have to get their thinking hats on right now to work out how to thwart this new kind of terrorism. The rules have just changed.

Survivors flee the Kenyan Shopping mall

jamesmfraser.co.uk

Weasel Wordsmith of the Week

This week's WeaselWordsmith of the Week is... Ed Balls. Fighting off a crowded and hugely talented field, Ed has shown his world class Weaseldom in a breathtaking assertion. Namely that he didn't know anything of Damien McBride's character assassination tactics when working for Gordon Brown, and that he has never used them himself. Seasoned observers of Weasel have stood back in awe at Ed's sheer quality. The Lionel Messi of Weasel. You know when he's lying. He opens his mouth. The three most terrifying words in the English language : Chancellor Ed Balls.

For  Added BonusWeasel, click on http://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/politics/gordon-brown/10329510/Gordon-Brown-refuses-to-condemn-McBride.html as GB does a runner from a Daily Telegraph journalist in New York, after being asked to comment on McBride.
Voters in his Kirkaldy and Cowndenbeath constituency, take note of his whereabouts, while trousering his MP's salary.

The Vortex of Wurst - is there no escape?

Countries are stereotyped by their love of a food. The US have the burger, the British, fish and chips, the French, frog's legs, the Italians, pasta, the Spanish, paella. But they're often just that. A stereotype. The German's love of a sausage, or wurst, isn't. Love is an understatement. Obsession is closer to the mark. In Berlin for the elections, I thought I'd be gripped by Angela Merkel's swashbuckling electioneering, the cut and thrust of democracy in the heart of the EU. How could I be so wrong? Stuff the CDU, sod the SPD, bin the Bundestag, and chuck the coalition talks.
I thought I'd be indifferent to the charms of the German sausage. A mere sideline. But it has an insidious, creeping tendency to addiction. Comforting, tasty, affordable, and democratic. Germany has 1500 varieties, and I'm only on my fifth, the Nurnberger Rostbratwurst flavored with marjoram and a source of great regional regional pride from the state of Franconia. Before that, the mighty Thuringer Rostbratwurst, spices are marjoram, caraway, sometimes garlic and the sausage is formed using casings from pig intestines. And then the world renowned Frankfurter Bockwurst from the city itself,  is made from veal with some pork or other meats that I don't dare think or care about and flavoured with salt, pepper and paprika. It's boiled and eaten with Bock beer and mustard. It looks like a curved hot dog, only better, so much better. And I just don't give a shit anymore........
For God's sake! Someone get me home. I've been sucked into the Vortex of Wurst.

Checkpoint Charlie revisited

Uncle Sam's on sale.
Picture by James Fraser/jamesmfraser.co.uk

Angela Merkel is tackling political problems after yesterday's election victory that you could frankly fit in a matchbox. Over at Checkpoint Charlie in Berlin, we're all reminded of the hard-power confrontation of East v West, capitalism v communism, that threatened world peace for 45 years. The Berlin Wall divided a city and countless families, with tanks ranged against each other and escapees from the East were shot dead by border guards, until in 1989, the wall fell. Hardline Communist leader Erich Honecker was booted out by his own party, east German border guards to their credit, refused to open fire as thousands flooded across the border met by as many jubilant West Germans. Trabant met BMW. Checkpoint Charlie and the Berlin Wall became history. Today, it is part moving tribute, part tacky tourist trap. The only battle raging here is between the fast food outlets dotted around the  once feared junction. Guess who's won.

German Elections 2013 : a well earned yawn

'Mutti' Merkel

Sunday, September 22, Berlin. Germany decides. More-Of-The-Same is predicted. A lacklustre campaign, fought by a mummy figure or 'Mutti' as she is characterised, and a dreary and gaffe-prone opponent, the socialist SPD candidate, Peer Steinbruck. A wave of lethargy has swept the voters into their armchairs.
But wait a minute. A visit to the Reichstag's Norman Foster designed dome and it's compelling exhibition of photographs from the last 100 years gives the game away. The torture of the 1930's depression, the rise of Hitler and his gangster state, the burning down of the building, defeat and destruction of Berlin during World War II, and the rape of countless Berlin women at the hands of the victorious Russian soldiers takes an unimaginable toll on a country's capital. The coalition and compromise of post-war politics in Germany rebuilt a shattered country and guided it through re-unification. They've had more 'exciting' times than the rest of us put together. They've earned a bit of boredom.

The Norman Foster dome at the Reichstag. Pictures by James Fraser/jamesmfraser.co.uk

Fraud at the heart of Europe

There is a cruel scam at the heart of Europe, played out in Berlin. Naive taxpayers are being cheated out of their money every day by plausible men and women, all in collusion, often smartly dressed, appearing to be something they are not, promising the unsuspecting the chance to improve their life, but delivering quite the opposite. They are swindled out of their money. And the authorities simply turn a blind eye to this sickening practice.
No, I'm not referring to the Eurozone, though it's a compelling parallel.
I refer to the 'shell game'. It's played out on the pavement's of the German capital by groups shysters. Their leader has 3 small boxes and one small ball, moving the boxes quickly, one covering the ball. It looks easy to guess which box hides the ball. His cronies are all in on it, periodically betting and winning with whoops of excitement to make the innocent think this is a fair game of chance. It's rigged and when the victim loses their money, a burly man bundles them away, the rest melt into the crowd. This weekend, I heard more than one tourist utter the plaintive cry "I want my money back!" Fat chance.
If the authorities here don't have the will to stamp out this disgraceful little fraud, in the shadow of the Reichstag itself, what chance of reformed EU, led by a newly-elected Angela Merkel? This is one I will bet on. No chance.

Scammers work on American tourist, centre, being held by man in white cap. Picture:James Fraser

Fear and loathing. Part 2

Gordon Brown chewing a wasp covered in vineager, or is he just smiling?

As a news photographer, I once made Gordon Brown laugh. I used to think it was the pinnacle of my career. Why did I bother? On the countless times I had to photograph The Son of The Manse, he always had to remember to smile, but immediately regretted it. His long, dark, malign shadow is still visible to any political observer, amateur or professional, re-heated by the McBride memoirs.He employed, mentored, moulded, and created many of the current Labour leadership meeting in Brighton this week.
Ed Miliband and Ed Balls, should count themselves lucky they never actually met him.

Berlin airlift

Derren Nesbitt

I'm 56, and I should know better. I arrive at Berlin's Schonefeld airport. I'm greeted by my friend Nick. I say in my best Colditz  voice: "Ze Eagle has landed!" I can't help myself. If you know the names Derren Nesbitt and Anton Diffring, you'll understand.  But I wasn't alive in the Second World War, our house was never bombed by a Heinkel. My dad was a youth, not a Tommy. Our family wasn't persecuted, or killed by the Nazis. Yet in some dark, dead end alley of my mind, I instinctively refer to a conflict I was never part of, and have no right to adopt as a badge of victimhood or a source of humour. My fellow passengers,who are mostly young, 25 or less, are coming to Berlin to enjoy a great European capital, it's culture and it's nightlife with no reference to past ghosts.Thank God for the grown ups....

Lights in the city in the eve of the poll :"To the German People"

To the Reichstag  for what promises to be a revelation. It's grandeur, its muscularity, its size, make me realise how mad the Nazis were to burn it down.

Full moon over the Reichstag. Picture by James Fraser

Macho macchiato, to go.

Great news from Hollywood! Kelsey Grammer, aka Frasier, is at last joining the cast of the macho-packed, body-strewn, ammo-fest movie franchise, The Expendables. Led by griselled veteran, Sly Stallone of Rocky I-XXVI fame, Kelsey will be beside himself with anticipation about his first day on set with a pantheon of action immortals who just refuse to die. Kelsey: "Good morning everyone, Sly, Arnie, Jet, Dolph, Jason, Jean-Claude, Wesley, can anyone tell me where I get the chocolate sprinkles for my Javan raspberry caramel macchiato?" The reply, I venture, will be terse.

Hot wind from the cold north

Sir Alan B'Stard pays his respects to Holyrood

An apology : to all my friends and colleagues in Scotland,
I am sorry.
Sorry for painting the independence vote, in exactly one year's time, as a glaring example of man made global warming in history. A miasma of hot wind, a mistral of nauseous gas will belch hard and strong for 365 days, from the media and political engine that is Holyrood.
As a veteran observer and news photographer of 15 years of the Scottish political scene, I'll bet the house on a 2:1 vote in favour of the Union. And everyone up there, including the SNP, knows it. In the meantime, the journos, the psephologists, analysts, commentators, and politicians and their coteries, will stoke up the heat of controversy to gas mark 11. Because it's the only show in town. Without Independence,
Scotland's news value is on a par with Norwich. With Independence, it's Page One, Coast to Coast, Network. They'll even hear about it in Perth. Western Australia, that is.

Costa fortune

Anyone who's been anywhere near the rail of the poop deck of a cruise liner cradling a cocktail protectively in their hand will know one thing. The ship moves at glacial speed anywhere near anything that isn't water. If you're in a hurry, don't be. Modern liners have every bit of marine satnav technology in the book to avoid parking it where it doesn't belong.

Quite baffling that the 952-foot ship ran aground 50 yards off the beautiful island of Giglio off the Tuscan coast in January 2012, killing 32 people, threatening an ecological disaster and costing a fortune to salvage. It shouldn't put you off cruise liners. But it should put you off one captained by a jolly sailor called Francesco Schettino. He's up before the Beak on Sept 23.
One silver lining: the island's businesses have benefited from the custom of 450 salvage workers since the diaster.

Going to the wall

Off to Berlin on Thursday to witness what is being called  probably the dullest election in European history on Sep 22.
Frau Merkel, the CDU (Christian Democrat) chancellor has developed a brilliant campaign strategy. It's called : "Bore The Living Crap Out of Everyone" or "Merkelism". Forget the pollsters, the thinktanks, the researchers, the number-crunchers, the psephologists and all the voodoo-science bullshit associated with elections in Britain (and the US). Front and centre from Angie is the policy of numbing the minds of electorate into passivity with tedious debate, clever people will say. And yet, and yet, the German spirit will not easily be crushed - as the campaign poster below demonstrates. The East German chemist and hausfrau may or may not have commissioned it. It may or may not be the work of an over-zealous CDU campaign intern, keen to impress their leader. But I salute the sheer elan of this attempt to show a softer, more accessible Angela. Someone at least half the population can admire.
WARNING. Do not try this in the UK. Any attempt to reproduce this message with Yvette Cooper or, for pity's sake, Theresa May, may lead to a national mental breakdown.

"I do everything for my country" Transparency in politics writ large.

Lib Dems - over the top

At last! The waiting's over. The hearts are pounding, the adrenalin is pumping, the sinews have tightened. The rifles are loaded and cocked. The whistles have sounded. ''Over the top, lads. For God, Queen and Cleggie!"

                                 Photo shows Lib Dems in Glasgow today.

 The Lib Dem army has seized on a just cause worth dying for. After years of political torpor, trenchfoot, and meagre rations, the troops are ready to bound into action, wade through the mud and barbed wire of coalition compromise.
 This is it. The Big Push. The  Donkeys have devised a cunning plan for their Lions, worthy of Private Baldrick himself. General Clegg has devised a masterstroke to change the course of the whole campaign. "We're going to invent a new mansion tax for properties worth over £2m!" he announced to his loyal divisions. "One we'll die in the trenches for!"
Beware of what you wish for, General.
The voting public might just grant it.

Campbell's sauce

Alastair Campbell practices smiling. A work in progress.

Dear Alastair,
You're worried about the damage alcohol is doing to this country.
Let's start with an alcohol ban at the party conferences, an end to tax-payer funded cheap booze at Westminster, and sell off the government's stash of fine wines. If the French can do it, so can we.
Your previous challenges with the bottle are the very least of your failings. The bars at The Hague are alcohol-free. You should feel at home.

Fear and loathing in Glasgow

Order(s)!

Glasgow's a great choice for the Lib Dem conference, but an even better one for a piss-up and a fight.  A night out in that fair city has an uncanny habit of turning from a swallae (swallae - to swallow,  ("Dae ye fancy gon fur a wee swallae doon the pub?") into a stramash (stramash, Scottish noun : an uproar; tumult; brawl). My bet is the simmering tensions within the party will boil over not in the conference hall but in one of the 80 or so, fine drinking establishments of the renowned, or, as some might say, the feared Sauchiehall Street.
My advice to the leadership. Issue a three line whip: No delegates on pub crawls, especially any organised by Charlie Kennedy.