Come off it, Mr Murdoch

IT SEEMS THAT Rupert Murdoch is deeply offended at being called a republican and has despatched his lieutenants hither and thither to dispel the foul smear. First there was Andrew Neil on the Clive Anderson Show fervently denying that he even knew Murdoch's views on the monarchy. Then there was Andrew Knight, the chairman of News International, saying in the Spectator that Murdoch, far from being a republican, was such a committed royalist that he actually bought stories about royal infidelities in order to stop the wicked tabloids publishing them. I found this admission so gobsmacking I had to read it three or four times. He buys stories in order to suppress them? This is pretty dangerous stuff, surely? I mean, if he starts with the Royal Family, why stop at politicians? It also makes a nonsense of the Sunday Times's stand on the Andrew Morton book - why didn't they simply stick it in the safe along with all their other royal secrets?

The other extraordinary thing about the whole Morton book hoo-ha is the way that 'republican' is being hurled about as if it were some deadly accusation, equivalent to 'terrorist' or 'axe murderer'. But in fact the real equivalent is 'vegetarian' - someone who holds a minority view, but a perfectly honourable one.

Indeed, I would take the comparison further. Many people in recent years have found that they could quite easily give up red meat (Fergie, Prince Edward, Princess Margaret) and, after a while, that they could manage without fish and white meat too (Princess Anne, the Queen Mother). But for most people there is a sticking point - in my case, lobster - which is too good to give up and prevents the final commitment. The Queen is our lobster and as long as she is on the menu, the vegetarian/republican tendency will not prevail. But we still mustn't go round calling its adherents wicked.

I WANT to compile a list of the most irritating misspellings commonly in use. Ex-patriot is my current white- knuckle favourite, but all suggestions welcomed.

CAN TINA BROWN really breathe life into the great dead whale of the New Yorker? It has been beached for at least two decades but if anyone can get it spouting again, Tina Brown can. I have never understood the appeal of the New Yorker myself - why should anyone want to buy a magazine consisting of 20,000-word articles about the Great Barrier Reef, illustrated with decrepit cartoons of Manhattan life circa 1930? New Yorkers certainly don't read it, but I suppose that, as with Punch (rather an unhappy comparison, come to think of it), it retains some nostalgic appeal to the colonies.

When Bob Gottlieb was appointed its editor in 1987 he approached Ian Jack, the editor of this paper, who was then a freelance writer. Gottlieb explained the enormous honour - and also the enormous fees - that writing for the New Yorker entailed. 'But a warning,' he added. 'Writing for the New Yorker will make you nervous. We will want 20,000 words. You will spend a long time on research. You will throw the first 1,000 words away, then you'll start again and chuck the second 1,000 words. You'll feel ill, but eventually you'll finish and send the piece to us. We'll probably send it back and ask you to rewrite. That could happen a couple of times. Then we'll let the fact-checkers loose. You might spend a week or two talking to them. Then we might not use it - that happens quite a lot. But if we do, you'll be in the world's greatest magazine - up there with the Ved Mehtas and the Doris Lessings.' Ian Jack had no difficulty in saying no.

WHAT'S the point of having a column if you can't plug your own book? It's a collection of interviews called Mostly Men and has just come out in Penguin, price pounds 5.99. I've been doing what my publishers grandly call a 'publicity tour': that is, popping into those funny little radio stations that only taxi drivers know about. This morning the tour takes me to LBC to be interviewed by Andrew Neil - the wrong way round, I know, but every time I suggest interviewing him he mutters about turkeys not voting for Christmas.

Anyway, I've enjoyed meeting other interviewers and learning their tricks of the trade. One I particularly envied came from Diana Luke of Greater London Radio: she keeps an album in which she asks all her interviewees to write their comments afterwards. The comments are mainly lavish compliments on her devastating beauty but one from Jeff Banks, the fashion guru, caught my eye: 'The road from Kamakua to Kyoto,' he wrote, 'takes 12 days. Should you abandon the journey on the 11th day you will not experience the purity of the moon rising over the capital.'