I write today with an entirely new identity and I want to thank the Prime Minister for it. The whole thing is very exciting. I went to his speech as a boring old human hack. I arrived in the glass and chrome jungle that is Canary Wharf and promptly got lost before, eventually, stumbling on the right building. If only I had known then that, actually, I was a feral beast hunting in a pack, it would have saved me a lot of time.

Looking back, it seems incredible that I had no idea of my true form. Naively, I thought I was there to cover Tony Blair’s Legacy Tour. Indeed, I am beginning to feel like some sort of roadie for this endless series of events. Yesterday his subject was the media and we were provided with a superior class of biscuit. I now realise that, actually, our hosts should have whipped up some freshly killed wildebeest.

Mr Blair is extremely touchy about the media. “This is not a whinge about how unfair it all is,” he said, and I knew what was next. Sure enough, he said it had been a privilege to do his job and that “harsh” media coverage had been a small price to pay. “Anyway, like it or not, I have won three elections and am still standing as I leave office!” he cried. I checked. Yes, he was still standing but, also, he was whingeing.

He explained that, before he came to office, Labour had faced ferocious hostility from the media. Labour had tried to love us. He had been the most open prime minister in the history of prime ministers. He had held monthly press conferences and set up the Hutton inquiry. He had been held to account. “But leave that to one side,” he said.

He sounded so wounded by it all. “There is no point in blaming the media,” he said. He sounded wistful. Usually, that would mean he was about to blame the media but, this time, he surprised me. For Mr Blair had not come to blame us but to transmogrify us. I listened, transfixed, as he explained how it had happened.

It seems that, faced with the pressures of 24/7 news and constant competition, journalists have become in thrall to the god of impact. “Impact is what matters,” he said. “It is all that can distinguish, can rise above the clamour, can get noticed.” I made a mental note: remember, make an impact.

It seems that, in search of impact, we had become addicted to scandal and attack. “It is not enough for someone to make an error,” he said. “It has to be venal.” I was scribbling furiously now. Remember, remember, venality is key. It was rare to get such clear career guidance from the very top.

Next, though, came the real revelation. “The fear of missing out means today’s media, more than ever before, hunts in a pack. In these modes it is like a feral beast, just tearing people and reputations to bits.”

How exciting is that? I stopped taking notes for a minute. Indeed, I am not sure that feral beasts have to take notes. Why bother with fiddly notebooks, when you can roam round, foaming at the mouth, mauling wildebeests and reputations? I checked my hands. Yes, they looked different. I was growing claws.

Mr Blair says feral beasts see things only in extremes. Everything is a triumph or a disaster. Well, as far as I am concerned, this speech was a triumph. Now excuse me while I go and practise my yowl.

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