There's something about a fire alarm and a full-scale hotel evacuation at 5am that puts one in mind of Judgment Day. When the world's financial markets tottered and Liberal Democrats debated who cares what, it seemed strangely appropriate that in the grey-black not-yet-dawn of Monday, September 15, all the guests at the Royal Bath Hotel should find ourselves shuffling along the Bournemouth pavement, thrown together and out of our beds at no notice, we knew not why.

Looking around I recognised a senior Times journalist, barefoot; and our cartoonist Peter Brookes in a theatrical black fedora. There was the inevitable Lib Dem in striped pyjamas; the sexy young barman of four hours ago, literally crestfallen, his elaborately waxed-up hair squashed and cocky smile and smart braces gone; and a peer of the realm in a vest; and a lady out of her make-up and court shoes and into dressing gown and slippers and a face saggy with sleep.

A siren screams and the story freezes. No smiles, no tears, just blank faces in the dark, a shuffling of feet, and the sound of the sea. Thus could the Last Trump surprise us, wiping away every future, stripping us of our glad rags and levelling us down.

Highly strung

Lib Dem official: “That's the wrong lanyard round your neck, sir.”

Conference-goer: “But it's just string to hang the pass on. My pass is in order. Check - the photo's of me. What's wrong with the lanyard?”

Official: “The string's the wrong colour. It has to be yellow.”

Conference-goer: “I thought the Liberal Democrats were the party of individual freedom. Can't I choose my own string?”

Official: “It has to be yellow.”

Conference-goer: “Why?”

Official: “That's my orders, sir.”

Under cover

Meltdown Monday was a sunny day on the Dorset coast so on the spur of the moment I joined two colleagues from another newspaper for a sundown dip in the Channel, throwing off my clothes and diving in in my underpants. It wasn't at all cold and we stayed in for ages - until I realised that in ten minutes Lord (Paddy) Ashdown was speaking on Afghanistan. So I wrung out the wet pants, stuffed them in a bag, and put my trousers on without them.

The years have not mellowed the battle-hardened Paddy Ashdown, formerly of the Special Boat Service and said to be able to kill a man with a single blow. Indescribably thrilling - to listen to the flinty-eyed warrior bark of guns, opium, warlords and the bloodthirsty hill tribes of Afghanistan, knowing all the while that one is wearing no underpants. I believe it's called “going commando”.

Invincible

But to go commando to hear the Lib Dems' foxtrotting Shadow Chancellor and conference darling, Vince Cable, would have been too much to bear so, underpants back on, I found a spare seat near the front of the conference hall to receive the great man's thoughts on this week's economic turmoil. Not since Kemal Atatürk paced the streets of Istanbul with blackboard and chalk, explaining Western script to the Turks, has a politician come among his flock as a teacher and soothsayer as Dr Cable does.

But he was terribly hard on the Tories. And as one scathing thrust followed another, the balding Cassandra fixed me with a beady and unwavering stare. Every now and again he would look away, towards the other side of the hall, then straight ahead of him - then swivel his head back round and peer angrily at me again. Why pick on me like this? After squirming for about quarter of an hour in his reproachful glare, I realised I was sitting directly beneath one of his three Autocue screens.

141 words to fill

Twenty years ago this week, I began writing my regular columns for The Times. I was asked to send sketches from the Liberal Democrats' conference in Blackpool. The party spent its first day happily discussing what its own name should be, so no problem sketching that - but on the Tuesday there was nothing interesting to report, so I didn't file a sketch. At about 6pm a sub-editor in Wapping phoned me. “Where's the sketch?” he said.

“Nothing to write about today,” I said, “so I didn't send one.”

With commendable restraint my colleague told me there was a hole in the page where my sketch should be. He wanted 685 words. Any words. If they were good words, so much the better, but most importantly, words please - and fast. Nearly 5,000 columns later, I hope I've learnt the lesson.

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