Sometimes it’s just better to take the money and run. And I suspect that now is one of those times for Tony Blair.

Our former Prime Minister (and doesn’t it seem an age since he was in power?) is embarking this week on his new life as a Middle East peace envoy. And while I wish him well I’m not convinced it’s the right thing to do. Not because he isn’t right for the job. Rather, it’s because the job isn’t right for him.

Lots of the people who’re unhappy with the idea of Mr Blair as envoy to the Middle East are upset for the usual Rageh Omaar/Robert Fisk/Piers Morgan/Mark Malloch Brown-type reasons. How can the man who brought havoc to Iraq/refused to condemn Israel last summer/rode shotgun with Bush for so long etc, possibly be a plausible peacemaker now?

I’m afraid I’ve got no time for all that guff. Mr Blair was quite right not to get sidetracked into facile game-playing during the war last summer. He recognised that the root cause of the problem was a terrorist organisation which wanted to prosecute a war of annihilation against world Jewry rather than against a democracy trying, albeit imperfectly, to defend itself. As Prime Minister, whatever his many faults, Mr Blair did possess one virtue. He never bought into all the moral relativism so prevalent on the Left, which means that some find it almost impossible to show solidarity with democrats against totalitarians. And for that reason, any influence that he can bring to bear in the Middle East will, I am sure, be all to the good.

But while I’m convinced that his instincts are right in this matter, I’m not so sure that he’s right to be once more turning to the heat and dust of the arena.

And my concerns here are entirely personal. Now that Mr Blair is no longer a Member of Parliament, no longer a domestic political player, no longer an electoral threat to the Conservatives, it’s possible, I hope, to offer some disinterested advice to him. And my first worry about his taking up this job is the Sisyphean nature of the task.

All sorts of brave and noble individuals, and a variety of politicians from Henry Kissinger to Bill Clinton, have aspired over the past 60 years to be the heroic individual who can bring warring sides together. But to no avail. And that’s because conflicts end when the protagonists of violence decide that they can get no more out of fighting. And not before.

Peace in Ireland came when Irish republicans came to appreciate that, in their own words, “the war is over”. A lot of patient work had to be done to allow that change of approach on the IRA’s side to become entrenched, but that work was made worthwhile only because the leaders of militant republicanism had already realised that military means were no longer the most effective way forward.

Are those who have advanced by military means in the Middle East convinced by recent events that they can get no farther by the use of the gun? In the answer to that question lies the central difficulty for Mr Blair.

But even if I am wrong about that, I still fear that Mr Blair may not be doing the right thing for himself. I can imagine how he’ll have felt when he eventually realised that his time in No 10 was really coming to an end. There would have been a growing sense of frustration – not at the prospect of losing the limo, the stately and the flunkies, but at losing a sense of purpose. The most difficult change to come to terms with would be the sense of no longer serving a useful role, the deeply disorientating realisation that in one’s fifties, with immense knowledge, hard-won experience and considerable reserves of energy and idealism, the most important official paper on one’s desk was the P45.

In the circumstances its entirely understandable that Mr Blair wanted a new big thing, a noble mission commensurate with his new-found status as an elder statesman. But no big job can compare with being PM, and no diplomatic envoy, however experienced, or with whatever intergovernmental blessings, can ever have the reach, influence or impact of someone who actually is a head of government. And Mr Blair must know that.

Like Sven-Göran Eriksson returning to manage Manchester City after having been in charge of the England team, Mr Blair is settling for something that is second best, a pallid reprise of his former role, instead of genuinely striking out in a different direction.

Once you’ve done the top job in any particular field you should never stick in the same territory. You’ll feel diminished, and you’ll never bring the same zest to the consolation role as you did to the real thing. What’s worse, when you succeed you risk overshadowing your successor, who deserves the limelight to himself. And when you fail you only make your own inability to move on seem all the sadder.

What Mr Blair should really be doing is striking out in a wholly different direction, away from the public gaze and in a way which really tests him. He should get involved in running a proper commercial organisation where there’s no evading proper financial disciplines – like John Major did. Or he should commit himself to sustained intellectual discovery by researching and writing a book on a theme which demands deep study – like Douglas Hurd has.

So my advice to Mr Blair is simple. This is no time for the hand of history. This is, instead, a time for clichés. The curtain has come down. There’s a new show in town. And absence will make the heart grow fonder.
— Michael Gove is Conservative MP for Surrey Heath

I refuse to have a pony on my chest

I think I have the opposite problem to all those people who are snapping up fake designer merchandise. I am a huge fan of everything about Ralph Lauren polo shirts – apart from the label.

I am in search of the perfect thing to wear above the waist for an English summer. It’s a difficult task. It needs to be smart but capable of keeping you cool when you’re battling the elements and you’ve got a cagoule/anorak on top. Office shirts look odd out of their usual milieu and quickly acquire a dishcloth-like quality when you start to perspire. Hawaiian/patterned short-sleeved shirts only suit men who are thin, tanned and have good muscle definition. I am none of the above. Round-neck T-shirts only work on the young – once flesh starts to sag you look like a sausage ready to burst or a distressed sofa.

The polo shirt has breathable cotton, a decent cut, with a long tail which helps cover sagging bottoms, a smart collar and a general feel of “at easeness”. And the best I’ve found – in terms of easy-fitting, hard-wearing, take anywhereness – are the ones with the little man on a polo pony on the breast. Which is where my problem comes in.

Because I hate clothes which signal who’s made them – from Hermès ties to Puma trainers. Can any reader tell me if someone out there makes polo shirts as good as Mr Lauren, but without any equestrian or other embroidery? And do they come in British racing green?

Pink pleasure

After years of resisting, I discovered over the weekend how delicious a glass of rosé can be. Is this a sign of advancing age? Upward or downward social mobility? Or just a wish to find something, anything, summery to enjoy this July? Advice, please.

timesonline.co.uk/michaelgove

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