Returning to these comment pages after three years writing in times2 is a bit like being transferred from the camp in Tenko to one of the ships in the Cruel Sea.

After spending all my time trying to hold my own in the company of gracious and resourceful women with robust English senses of humour (Caitlin, Jane, Sandra and Mary Ann) I am now surrounded by big guns, wildly out of my depth and live in fear of imminent extinction. Which, of course, means I can readily sympathise with our Prime Minister.

Both Gordon and I know our survival depends on keeping key media constituencies happy. In his case it's turning round all of Fleet Street, in my case it's doing what Robbie the comment editor tells me after he's finished briefing William, Libby and Melanie.

As a confirmed fan of Reader's Digest (he loves its condensed books) Robbie has asked me first off to emulate its Improve Your Word Power feature. He was struck by some definitions for valuable new words I coined in times2 a few weeks back and wondered if I could rattle around in my Scrabble bag for a few more. When Robbie asked I naturally felt a profound sense of Dawlish (n) - dread that having flukily told one funny joke once people now think you're a natural comedian and will press you to repeat the performance, telling all their friends “he's such a hoot”, only for you to collapse into sweaty incoherence after five seconds...

Anyway, all Corbetting (v) - constantly delaying getting to the point in the hope that you can buy time and sympathy with digressions - apart, here goes with some more.

Bourton-on-the-Water (n): That feeling you have after imbibing something between 15 and 20 units of alcohol when you realise you haven't drunk any of the Badoit on the table, you have to go to bed imminently and your bladder won't now allow you to absorb any liquid that could provide hydration.

Moreton-in-the-Marsh (n): That feeling which hits you in your stomach, about five hours after you've been through Bourton-on-the-Water, when you know your system needs purging but, like the Prime Minister, you don't know where the next troubling eruption will come from and all you can do is bite your lip and cross every limb.

Burford (n): The noise you make when you're going through Moreton-in-the-Marsh, as in “I heard that Burford coming from your room and knew you'd clearly been on the Jägermeister with Raef long after the rest of us went to bed...”

Stow-on-the-Wold (v): The act of treading very carefully, as though a single wrong step will cause all your limbs to disintegrate into ash, a type of activity which usually follows going through Bourton-in-the-Water and Moreton-in-the-Marsh. As in “I don't think I'll join you at the astanga yoga class this morning - my heads spinning so fast I can scarcely stow on the wold...”

Witney (n): The noise you make for the rest of the day in place of speech, after having been through all of the above - as in “I asked Michael if he'd like the tripe for lunch, and told him it was served with a delightful Jägermeister reduction which Clarissa whipped up for us, and all he did was emit a rather pitiful witney...”

Crimes against irony

The report that The Guardian columnist George Monbiot disrupted a session at the Hay-on-Wye literary festival when he attempted to arrest the American former diplomat John Bolton for war crimes is One of Those Moments. Like Antonia Pinter's Holland Park dinner parties that were designed to bring down The Hated Thatcher Junta. Or that book by Graydon Carter that was going to halt Bush'n'Cheney in their tracks. Or indeed any interview with Gore Vidal in which he pledges to restore the virtues of the original American republic. They all prompt you to ask - is it possible to be an author and have no sense of irony at all?

Divine lights

Philip Pullman may be anti-Christian. But his books aren't. His novel Northern Lights derives much of its moral force from playing on our natural horror at the idea that human life can be used as a means to an end. The villains of the book are the Gobblers, who seek knowledge by experimenting on life before it is fully formed. The moral instincts Pullman is invoking are those which animated many religious people to object to the recent embryo experimentation Bill. The Satan of Paradise Lost is apparently Pullman's hero. But, like Milton's fallen angel, Pullman ends up making the case for the divinity against whom he's in rebellion.

Michael Gove is Conservative MP for Surrey Heath

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