Always nice to be there at a historical moment. About an hour ago, I was in an Irish pub, round the corner from Patpong (where tourists from Wolverhampton go to watch strange things being done to ping-pong balls), listening to a man with a bad combover sing Crowded House songs, and waiting for the man from The Times, who I'd arranged to meet for a Guinness. Then the aforementioned agent of Murdoch phoned.
"Sorry, can't make it," he said, in tones so apologetic and polite that I already feel bad about the Murdoch dig. "Looks like [Prime Minister] Thaksin's just resigned. I think it might be regarded as dereliction of duty if I spent the evening in the pub."
God, journalism's not what it used to be.