Captain Moonlight

HELLO again! And it's still wonderful to be back! But then you can't beat the conference season can you? Love it, absolutely love it. I thought Tony and Gordon did terrifically, as you would expect; and Peter was, well, Peter, especially that delicious crack about not wanting too many horny-handed sons of toil on the benches behind him. Have you seen his hands, by the way? He could model with them, he really could. Just look below. No wonder Tony was to be heard on the blower in his room apologising for not being there when Peter made his big speech. He swore he'd watched it on the telly; let's just hope that's good enough. But my best moment was at the Shelter fringe meeting starring Nick Raynsford, the construction minister who has been campaigning against cowboy builders. What happened? The backdrop fell on him. Life's life that, I often find, don't you?

t BUT we must get on. Sponsorship. And the fierce contest to sponsor this column continues apace, although, obviously, I can't reveal too much at such a delicate stage. What I can tell you is that last week I approached the Conservative Party, suggesting that a picture of the young leader up in my hat and a liberal supply of his speeches and baseball caps for you, my readers, would be a telling step on the long march back. And the spokesman seemed very, very keen. He was called Aiken (for some reason, most anxious to stress that there was no "t" in his surname). Oddly, I never heard from him again. But the Captain is not the man for a petty grudge. That's why I myself have decided to sponsor this week's big event in Bournemouth, to lend it a little class. You remember how Somerfield, the grocers, put their name all over the chains to the Labour delegates' identity cards? Exactly. Now look around the edge of the column, at the handsome motif and motto. All Tory delegates have to do is cut along the dotted lines, then wrap the strip around their chains. Voila! You at home can put it on your spectacle chains or, indeed, any unsightly flex. Next!

t BBRRNNGG! The telephone rings, urgently. It is my hot source in the exciting world of publishing, Hugh Advance. "Captain, my Captain,'' he says (Hugh is of a suitably literary bent). ''It has come to my attention that Gail Rebuck, Random House chief, the most glamorous, powerful, talented, and genuinely nice person in British publishing, the other and equally glittering new Labour half of Philip Gould, the media "guru" presently introducing the Express group to the delights of the Third Way, is not happy.'' While Hugh pauses for breath, I ask if this has anything to do with the appalling events of the summer, when cheap sneers about "cronyism" had such a tragically negative effect on her attempt to serve her country as vice-chairman of the BBC. "No,'' says Hugh. "It's these Germans who've taken over Random House, the Bertelsmann people. A little, how shall we say, dictatorial, apparently. Gail wants raus - schnell.'' Hugh has to dash; I am left thinking that this is probably not the best time to approach Gail with my work in progress, "Hans Up: Great Germans I Have Known," by Captain Moonlight (with Norman Stone). Next!

t NATURE NOTES With Captain Moonlight. I've been noticing them for a bit now. Lots of them. Black. Noisy. Sinister. Crows. Big crows. Very T Hughes. Sitting, staring, getting closer. I thought it was just me, in Vauxhall. But then someone told me there were lots of them in Balham, too, gathering, watching. So I telephoned the London Wildlife Trust, the Royal Society for the Protection of Birds, and the British Trust for Ornithology. The figures show a small increase in the number of crows nationwide, about three per cent, nothing significant. I put forward my theory: that crows, like foxes and other scavengers, were moving in on the inner cities. But I couldn't get anybody very excited. Or worried. The local man for the Trust said that people tended to think of crows as solitary creatures, but that wasn't right. There was, for example, a flock of 500 in Sutton, and another 100 in Wandsworth. Did crows, I wondered, ever attack anything? Hadn't they, for example, been known to go for sheep? "I don't think they'd attack a fully fit sheep,'' he said. "But if it was lying down not feeling very well, they'd probably go for it.'' What about a small dog? "Very unlikely.'' Captain's advice: Hmmm. If you live in south London and have a small dog that's feeling a bit poorly, be very, very careful. More reports, please!

t BBRRNNGG! The telephone rings again. It is my other contact, Duane, who is something of an expert on the intriguing doings of the exciting people who appear in the smaller sized newspapers. "Captain,'' he says. "Will Carling''. Ah, yes, I say, I know him. Played centre, no inside break. A social innovator who has just pioneered the method of ending the celebrity affair whereby you re-write the bit of your autobiography dealing with the current relationship and then leave the heavily corrected proofs lying on the joint coffee table. "Exactly," replies Duane. "He's got a way with ending things, has Will. When he wanted to sack his secretary he stayed away from his office for a week and got his agent to ring in and tell her from somewhere in the Midlands.'' But, I protest, that was probably out of delicacy, and the wish to avoid embarrassment and hurt. "You bet, skipper,'' says Duane. "She was Australian, six feet square with the swiftest left cross in the Western Suburbs. Ciao.'' I replace the receiver sadly, reflecting once more on the price of fame.

t TRUMPET: blowing one's own. Vulgar, I know, but such are our times. Remember my little story about Tom Cruise and his bodyguards coming to the rescue of a neighbouring muggee, and said muggee telling us all about it in Nicky's salon? Well, my dears, over all the other papers, but not until days later. Which proves pretty conclusively, I should say, that the Captain is Fleet Street's Number One when it comes to hairdressing contacts. And the decision by the Catholic church to crack down on Anglicans and all manner of other Cobleys taking communion should also remind us that it was none other than the Captain who first revealed to a startled world that Mr Tony Blair was indulging in a spot of ''mixed bathing'' (as the faithful sniffily call it) at Cherie's local. Those "scoop'' thingies: we got 'em!

t MAIL ORDER With The Captain. An occasional selection of offers you might have missed when the brochure dropped out of the middle of the magazine and knocked that cup of coffee all over your left foot and the carpet. Nothing for burns or stains this week, but a very exciting offer from the Maritime Company, Witney, Oxford. Look at my picture and then read this, from the brochure: "Iceberg on the Starboard Bow! Hours of innocent enjoyment in the bath or pool. See how difficult it is to hit a lump of ice on purpose with our inflatable Titanic, complete with blow-up iceberg." Remarkable. And only pounds 12.95. More from the wonderful, wacky world of mail order very soon!

t AND NOW, the Moonlight Miscellany, my acclaimed, wry look at current happenings. My first item this week will be of particular interest to anybody with four Boeing C-17 aircraft to spare. It seems that MoD is experiencing what is known as a short-term shortfall in its strategic airlift capability, or, more colloquially, "Crikey, what a cock up, we're four short." So if you've got a Boeing in good nick, or indeed any plane with a range of 3,200 miles capable of carrying 1,400 tonnes of military equipment, get in touch with your log book and I'm sure they'll see you right ... Next, Crimewatch. And the police have a number of recent successes to report. The man who stole a security camera from outside the Petersfield Job Centre, for instance, was tracked down by police watching the pictures on the camera; Alain Boucher, who escaped from a prison in Orleans, was spotted when he returned to visit a friend wearing a false beard; and the two men in Much Wenlock suspected of being illegal Albanian immigrants turned out to be from Cornwall. And, finally, the Noticeboard, advance warning of the more fascinating forthcoming events ... This week at the Cambridge Union: Floella Benjamin, Kris Akabusi, Martin Hancock (Coronation Street) and Karen Drury (Brookside) debate the motion "This House believes money can buy happiness.'' Food for thought, indeed. Bye!

Moonlight Photo Power: This is how they yet again befouled the field of dreams yesterday. Front, motorised and lightly armed after the FA edict designed to protect the man in the middle from physical assault, sits Frank "Off You Go" Ormondroyd. Frank had awarded a penalty during the Tunnocks Teacakes Division III derby clash between Dunsinane and Birnam Wood Wanderers for a handball by Mr J MacCavity, a Birnam supporter sitting in the third row. But this cannot excuse the glaringly obvious attempt by Birnam's manager, George Bung, to distract the penalty taker. And goodness knows what Harold "Dicky'' Bird thinks he's doing, particularly as it was always going wide of off stump.