The ghost of Labour's past

Truly the season of goodwill is upon us.

To the delight of lefty Labour MPs the shackles are hacked off one of Labour's shameful secrets.

With Gordon Brown's call for a debate on taxation, New Labour has not only let the mad relative out of the attic but made them guest of honour at Christmas Dinner.

For years they've pointedly ignored the knocking from upstairs now they wonder if it does, after all, signify something.

The man who should have been king, Michael Portillo, is taking to heart the dictum that there are few greater pleasures than looking down on others, hard at work.

During the chancellor's statement the ex-shadow chancellor was spotted watching from the upper gallery.

Not only watching but throwing back his head and roaring with silent laughter as Gordon Brown brandished the Wanless report to skewer the Conservatives' as yet unborn plans for social insurance in the NHS.

Doubtless relieved that he didn't have to dream up a reply. His colleagues beneath also groped for the correct response.

In the sort of display that makes the Commons such a dynamic and modern forum for debate, every time the chancellor mentioned the name of the author of the report, they chanted back loudly "Wanless!" before being overcome by hilarity.

Not that the chancellor's theatrically successful coup rests on very sound foundations.

Downing Street staff shuffle awkwardly when asked for a single shred of evidence for Derek Wanless conclusion that social insurance was a waste of time.

They lamely suggested that he'd talked to quite a few experts.

The advisors listed in the back of the report are indeed distinguished.

One hopes so, anyway: they're all civil servants working for the treasury or department of health.

My foreign office snouts claim a great victory for the Flying Helmsman but predict very choppy skies ahead.

They say that without his pressure the US would not be engaged in the Middle East peace process and a word in George W's ear has strengthened the hand of the man they see as Chief Good Guy, Colin Powell.

But which way would Tony jump if the Rumsfeld lynch mob saddles up and heads for Iraq?

Would he grab a spare noose and watch the European coalition collapse or allow his shoulder to slip somewhat from the favoured side to side position?

"It'll be an immensely difficult decision" murmurs my source.

Which way?

"Either, both" he mutters gloomily.

If Stephen Byers' beleaguered adviser Jo Moore does get buried it may not be for what you think.

Most fellow spin doctors think that she should have walked the plank in the first place to save the Government's embarrassment, although they are thankful of the doctrine that sees the press as hungry tigers. (Give 'em a taste of man flesh and they'll return nightly to the village to kill again).

But their real worry is a more subtle failure of spin.

One tells me that her crass memo has "infected" the story of the takeover of Railtrack, turning what should have been a good news story into something a bit seedy. For this she may not be forgiven.

The real triumphs of news management are those which go unseen.

Gordon Brown's protestations that Tony Blair was his best friend were much mocked.

The Prime Minister's spokesman's depiction of the relationship between the two men was so fulsome that one member of Her Majesty's lobby could stand it no longer.

He interrupted "What you describe was illegal until recently!"

But the over-the-top groundwork prevented even the most imaginative hack describing Gordon's plans for higher taxes in terms of a Downing street civil war: something that would have been inevitable before the love fest.

A German reader takes me to task for my (German) grammar in last week's diary.

I apologise on behalf of the BBC political unit's huge support team of specially trained linguistic researchers, constantly toiling to supply us with simultaneous translations into thousands of languages.

In your dreams.

Wailing that my language skills were so deficient that I couldn't come up with a punchline, two senior producers volunteer their services: or rather the services of their language graduate parents.

Both are on the phone as quick as a flash and for a time it's a race between Liz's mum and Malcolm's dad to find the longest, silliest dictionary definition of "spade".

People's enthusiasm for researching even the daftest facts is one of the things that makes the BBC special.

But my mistakes are all my own.