He has a very good sense of humour in fact

“He has a very good sense of humour, in fact.”
It is popularly thought that Blair ­ having decided that Dobson had the best chance of seeing off Ken Livingstone ­ piled on the pressure until Dobson eventually agreed to stand True? Absolutely not, he cries. “Mr Tony Blair never raised it with me, never asked me to do it, never twisted my arm.” OK then, what about people close to Tony Blair? Hmm? “Well.. yeah.. I mean.. attempted pressure… it’s about trying to get London working together on the three or four things that need sorting out… reducing crime and disorder, getting more economic investment, retaining existing jobs, getting new jobs…” Zzzzzzz… got any more jokes, Frank? Thankfully, he has: “Holmes and Watson go camping and, in the middle of the first night, wake up.

Holmes says to Watson: “Watson, what can you see?” Watson says: ‘It’s a terribly clear night, Holmes I can see the Great Bear And the Plough. What can you see, Holmes?” “Well, Watson,” replies Holmes, “I can see some bastard has stolen our tent!” I am very taken with this joke, and Mr Dobson is very taken with it, too “It’s even clean!” he cries Does Mr Blair enjoy your jokes, I ask Yes, he replies. His spiel is something that you could happily have a nap to, and do His spiel goes: “It’s an enormous opportunity… it’s almost impossible to exaggerate the difference between the mayor and any other politician there has ever been.. five million people will have a vote!… I say: “So, Frank, why do you want to be mayor?”
I suppose, now, this did have to be asked but, even so, I regretted it almost instantly His spiel goes on for ever.

Frank exclaims, shocked: “An hour! Good lord!” My confidence is rather shattered Both are now looking at me expectantly. I had wanted to go on to the pyramid tea-bag, but now feel rather silly I panic. For some reason we start off discussing tea, which leads me to ask him whether he thinks the round tea-bag really represents a significant step forward. At this point the assistant interrupts with: “You’d better get cracking, you’ve only got an hour.” I say, pathetically, I am cracking, actually.

But, truly, is he?
We move into a little side-room with some kind of assistant, who tapes the proceedings. “Aren’t you interested in our special offer of a pint, a pie and a fuck for just one pound?” asks the landlord. The Scotsman thinks about it, then says: “Whose pies are they?’”
We both laugh our laughs: his that big, Yorkshire one, mine an attractive, dainty, interestinglycosmopolitan north London one He has quite a naughty, un-Blairite vocabulary He is known for this. It may, in fact, be something he rather hides behind, like the beard It is so reassuringly Old Labour.