Captain Moonlight: Brilliant, Rupert! Super, fantastic, Rosie!

t HELLO there! Well, as you can imagine, the telephones have been going absolutely mad here all week! And no prizes for guessing why: yes, that's right, nearly every call posed the same simple question: "Captain, what on earth is this bold and brassy `British Way' that William Hague is banging on about and how can I follow it?" It's a good question, isn't it? And, of course, the Captain can help. Let me give you my Top 10 pointers for following the British Way. 1) Always wear your baseball cap with the peak facing the front. 2) On a sunny day, greet everyone you meet with the traditional saying, "Warm enough for you?", then raise both eyebrows and wink. 3) On a rainy day, greet everyone with the traditional saying, "Lovely weather for ducks!", again raising the eyebrows, but replacing the wink with a sigh. 4) Mostly, though, it is safer to whistle. If in doubt, apologise. 5) Let your Yorkshire pudding mix stand for at least two hours. 6) Never chew a boiled sweet. 7) Always wear a tie with your anorak. 8) Cycle through morning mists to Holy Communion on the pavement. 9) Hum while home improving. 10) Vote New Labour. Thank you.

t BBRRNNGG! The telephone, again, but, on this occasion, it is my renowned political correspondent, Ms Una Tributable. "Captain! Ken Follett! You must remember! Rich man, author, husband of the loveable Barbara MP, the Stevenage Belle, the original Labour Luvvie who was Robert Harris before Robert Harris was Robert Harris! Not quite so close to Tony now, though, which is a great pity. Whatever, I saw Ken at a performance of the Bob Lindsay Richard III the other night. Terrific play, Captain. The horse did it. Anyway, I went up to Ken and asked him if he thought Richard had any message for New Labour." And? "He didn't think it had." I replace the receiver, reflecting, with a sigh, that the political game gets ever harder to read. On!

t STILL pensive, I was cycling, according to my fashion, through Kensington Gardens, close to sunset. And, as the dying winter sun caught the gold of Prince Albert's mighty memorial with the last of its rays, I was struck so suddenly by a startling resemblance that my front wheel wobbled. Have a look down there and see what you think. C3PO! No, not a postal code, but the robot thingie from Star Wars. Amazing. Could explain a lot about the Windsors, too. Next week: Joschka Fischer, German foreign minister, continues our series pointing out the uncanny similarities between leading German politicians and British light entertainers (so far, Gerhard Schroder and Eamonn Andrews, Oskar Lafontaine and Hughie Greene) by standing comparison with both John Inman and the chap who used to play Captain Onedin in The Onedin Line. Hurry along!

t NOW, then, it's Trivia Time! Can anyone have forgotten that, before Christmas, the Captain asked you to submit, for reward, your nominations for the creme de la creme of millennial triviality, the moments and innovations over the past 1,000 years that changed the world really trivially? Well, to be frank, I had, until I happened upon some of your entries in a drawer while looking for a can opener. And it's a big thank you to Mr and Mrs Altham of Keighley, who have nominated the bread knife. "In addition to its daily use just think of all the DIY jobs that have been executed using this wonderful invention - and everyone a good-un!" Thank you, too, Mr Hummer of Hook Norton, for the zip: "Civilisation could not have been trivialised without it." And to Mrs Davis of California (Herts) for the swizzle stick, the individual slice lemon squeezer, the sandwich toaster, and, of course, the hang glider. The definitive millennium list grows apace. Only 994 to go. Bubbles all round!

t ACTORS. A lot of people sneer at them, don't they? Carps about their pretension and self-importance, pompous stuff about the worship of the cult of celebrity. The Captain has never jerked the knee to all this. Perhaps it is because I too have trod the boards, jousted on the dangerous limelit edge between huzzah and derision, carried it off with the negligent ease that comes only via naked fear and sheer bloody hard work. At school, I played, to acclaim, the female lead in that lively farce, Running Riot. Now, credentials established, come with the Captain to a screening of Shakespeare in Love, the new British film which has suffered from so shameful a lack of publicity. There is much to admire in it; and nothing more than Rupert Everett's nuanced, pointed and telling interpretation of Kit Marlowe. Actually, I once rented a villa in Tangier from Rupert's Dad, but that's quite enough of that. Rupert's role, though, is not a large one. Even so, unusually, it receives no credit. Why? Being a fellow actor, I immediately suspected modesty. But this is no column for idle speculation. I deputed one of my support staff, St John, to inquire further from Rupert's agents, ICM. "It was absolutely not because he was embarrassed by his performance," volunteered a lady there. "And if you say that, you'll get your arse sued." Showbiz, eh! Who said the play was the thing?

t BBRRNNGG! The telephone again, and, on it, my Stakhanovite media correspondent, Russell Nib. "Captain! Couple of things! First, Charlie Whelan. Been writing a lot recently, and the consensus is that he can't spell very well. Any good? Next, Rosie Boycott, richly talented editor of the Express, former richly talented editor here. It's possible, reading her entry in Who's Who, the top people's directory, to form the impression that she has a degree in pure maths from the University of Kent, when, in fact, she didn't complete her time there. Interested?" I am afraid I have to take quite a hard line with Nib, pointing out that 1) This is no column for unimportant tittle tattle; 2) Whelan can be rather fierce; 3) We may both be in need of a job from Boycott one day and it would be foolish to jeopardise our prospects by needlessly speculating about an ambiguous matter of at best minor historical importance. I then put the receiver down, pick it up again, and call Kent University. A quick and typically persuasive word in the right ear and before you can say eight eights are 64 I have nominated Ms Boycott for an honorary degree. Not at all, Rosie, happy to help. Next!

t PRAISE BE! A packet docks at Canary Wharf, bearing mail. And there, for the Captain, is a letter that proves the old-fashioned journalistic virtues of persistence, patience, doggedness and sheer bloody hard work can still bring their reward. Yes, the letter is from that other richly talented young actor, Sam West! That's right, the same Sam who is the son of Prunella Scales and Timothy West. Prunella Scales! The formidable actress, Tesco advertising icon and President of the Council for the Protection of Rural England whom I have been trying to contact these many months to discuss the apparent conflict between the Presidency and working for Tesco, which, according to many, including the CPRE, is attacking the said rural England. But could I get a reply from her agents? No. From her husband, Timothy? No. So, as I told you last week, I wrote to Sam, asking him to have a word. And now this: "Thank you for your letter. I understand that my mother will respond to you in due course." Hallelujah! I will never attack the young people of today again! When you're ready, Prue!

t AND now, the Moonlight Miscellany, a thing of sundries. And first, and new, the Captain's Celebrity Service. This is a little different, because it tells you where they go so you can avoid them. First, Waitrose in Holloway, Saturday mornings. Crawling with soap-opera stars and New Labour Cabinet ministers. Turn into a new aisle, and pop, there you are, another one. Next week: the hotel where Angus Deayton holidays and the London bus packed rigid with the nation's opinion formers. Next, worrying news from Vienna: the chairman of the St Bernard Breeders' Association has warned that the breed is very popular with Korean and Chinese restaurateurs because they lie around a lot and grow quickly. Next, news from the regions: a mild Lancashire cheese from Garstang has been taken up Mount Everest and eaten. Next, did you know that bears don't hug their victims to death, but kill them with a single blow of the forepaw? Which brings us to this week's top tip: if you encounter a grizzly bear you should either lie down and pretend to be dead, or run. Unfortunately, I can't remember which. Perhaps this week's far-flung reader, Mr Noble of Vancouver, can help. Mr Noble? Everyone else: Bye!