Monday, 11 July 2011
Who knew that under that stammering diffidence and the struggle to remove Bridget Jones's big pants was beating such a passionate and courageous heart? Grant took Question Time by storm last week in a way I don't think I've ever seen - even looking in the mirror.
He slaughtered the sacrificial lamb the Government had put up to defend their treacherous pusillanimity over the News of the World, and the guttersnipe Sun columnist Jon Gaunt he swatted away like the sewer-fly he is.
He pierced the hypocritical bubble being blown by short-trousered Krankie wee Douglas Alexander - to my astonishment now the shadow Foreign Secretary - by the simple act of reminding the audience that the schoolboy hyperventilating before us was at Rupert Murdoch's private party just a fortnight before.
Together with the noble Shirley Williams - and what a loss to Labour she is - Grant really was the very best of British.
Saturday, 9 July 2011
by George Galloway
For me the seminal moment was the sight of a sepulchral Rupert Murdoch - Berlusconi without the laughs - on the front of the Financial Times.
He was being hounded by a ratpack of journos to whom, face twisted in pain, he could only offer "No Comment".
For all the world he looked like an ageing, fading mafia don who'd hoped relocating to Miami beach would take him out of harm's way. And now knew different.
I declare an interest. Twenty five years ago today, I would have been about to head to Wapping to join the sacked print workers and journalists on the Saturday night picket of Murdoch's fortress.