So farewell, Boris Yeltsin. He was perhaps the perfect Russian leader, saving the authorities the usual need to provide hundreds of gallons of formaldehyde by comprehensively pickling himself while still alive. Indeed, while still in office. If his corpse were on display you’d probably need to be over 18 just to view it, what with the fumes.

It took an imaginative leap to arrive at work one day, eight sheets to the wind, pour himself an early morning stiffener, shakily wave his arms around and pronounce: “Right, comradesh, thatsh the end of communishmism, or whatever itsh called.”

If Gorbachev, the man we all admire (and the Russians despise), had clung on to power, there may well have been a gradual, if somewhat one-sided, convergence between our two social systems: it might have taken decades. But after a good night on the lash, Yeltsin made the crucial imaginative leap. To think outside the box, it is preferable to be several feet out of your own, via vodka or antifreeze, who knows.

This is something the pressure group Alcohol Concern seems to have forgotten with all this business about the calamitous effects of alcohol dependency among the young people of Britain. Yes of course they may end up dead in a garret with a liver the size of Belarus at the age of 25. On the other hand, they might be inspired to free the world from the possibility of nuclear armageddon, open the gulags and herald a new era of democracy (if only for a bit). Rather Yeltsin paralytic than Bush sober. Rather Bush paralytic than Bush sober, come to that.

Rather Yeltsin, tie, collar and hair askew pawing at his panic-stricken aides on the tarmac at Shannon airport saying: “You’re my besht friend, Edvard, letsh go for a curry or pizza . . . ” than some painfully sober monkey assuring us all, without blinking: “Hey, I’m a pretty straight kinda guy.”

The drinking aside – and the end of the cold war, and the democratisation of Russia, and the liberalisation of its economy, and the routing of the communist opposition and the freedom of the press – there isn’t much to commend in Yeltsin, still less to find likeable. A smirking autocrat whose commitment to democracy was at least in part imposed by political expediency.

But that’s what tends to happen; the greatest deeds of history, the things we feel most grateful for, are rarely effected by the politicians we most admire. They are perpetrated, by accident or otherwise, by those who felt no need to be constrained by the conventional wisdom – in other words, rogues, idiots and drunks.

The cold war was ended by, first, Ronald Reagan and second by Yeltsin; two people you would probably not wish to invite to dinner. But if Boris did come you’d keep the liquor cabinet locked.

If we can’t deport these two bastards, then who exactly can we deport?

If we can't deport these two bastards, then who exactly can we deport? That’s what the prime minister must be thinking this morning. Two Libyan terror suspects who are Islamist extremists, one connected to Al-Qaeda, the other a “jihadist” and a convicted criminal, have been told they can stay here by the Special Immigration Appeals Commission. Chaired by Mr Justice Ouseley, it accepted that they were a threat to national security – one of the men has links to the Islamist bombers who murdered 191 people in Madrid. But hell, give the boys a break, let them stay.

The two are known only as DD and AS to protect their human rights. They arrived here illegally on forged passports. Their greatest wish is to overthrow Colonel Gadaffi and replace him with an even more deranged regime. You could not design two people less deserving of refuge, nor who might be more likely to try to kill us in their spare time. The government wanted them sent bac to Libya so badly that it politely requested Gadaffi not to murder them or chop their arms off - and he, being a pliant creature these days, agreed.

The ludicrous Ouseley accepted that indeed “there is no probable risk” to the men on being returned to Libya – but he added that things might “go wrong”. A judiciary separate from the state is one thing. A judiciary separate from a state of sanity is another.

Stay safe, give Shilpa the kiss-off

Should the actor Richard Gere be set on fire or merely put in jail for having kissed Shilpa Shetty on the cheek during an Aids awareness bash in India? An arrest warrant has been issued by the conservative-minded Jaipur judge Dinesh Gupta, who announced that Gere had “transgressed all limits of vulgarity”. Well, Gupta, old chap, I can think of one or two limits he singularly failed to transgress. There were no tongues involved, for a gentle start.

On the streets of India, the primitives in their dhotis burnt effigies of Gere and demanded retribution. When you picture the Third World these days, that’s probably the first image that comes to mind – angry, religious madmen burning things in the street and howling at the moon. That – and flies.

I suppose we should concede it was a lapse of taste kissing Shilpa – rather than kicking her or just ignoring her. And a dangerous act. Any public figure who comes into contact with Shetty is immediately visited by chaos and destruction. She has become the Nosferatu of celebrities, spreading misery wheresoever her feet fall. I don’t suppose it’s her fault, but as Jade Goody and that ghastly woman who slept with Teddy Sheringham will attest: if you see Shilpa approaching, run for your life.

Adieu to the gay copper who gave it to us straight

Brian Paddick, Britain’s highest-ranking homosexual policeman, is to retire at the early age of 49. He won’t explain why. Perhaps he is suffering from a fashionable camp affliction, such as RSI or ME.

Or perhaps he was elbowed out because he told the truth – a far more dangerous condition in the Metropolitan police than wishing to have sex with other men. I always assumed all policemen were gay anyway: those uniforms, the perpetual male bonding and the faffing over “hate” crimes. Ooooh, you cow, that was a hate crime!

Paddick is blamed for heralding the politically correct copper (personified by the Met commissioner Sir Ian Blair). This seems a little unfair on Paddick, whose once revolutionary views on soft drugs are now shared by almost every sane adult and who spoke out when he thought something was wrong – rather than out of a desire to save his own skin, appease his political masters or through a simple yearning for self-aggrandisement. He will be missed.

-

Is Pete Doherty really a heroin addict, as he makes out, or is it all a con? Recently it was pointed out that he was a bit porky for a skaghead: what’s he cut his heroin with? Hollandaise sauce?

Last week my suspicions were aroused still further, having spoken to someone who had Doherty living in his house for a few months. When it came to class A drugs, this chap knew of what he spoke. “He’s not a junky at all,” he said. “He never even threw up in the morning. It’s all a show for publicity.”

If you’re a bona fide skaghead who is suspicious of Pete’s commitment to the cause, drop me a line. We’ll get to the bottom of this. Meanwhile, I wonder if Doherty will sue for libel if his heroin addiction is called into question. That would be a first.

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