The ‘alt Centre’ strikes me as being anti everything and pro very little

There is a new political tag — the “alt Centre” — used to describe those “moderates” digging their heels into the middle ground with the same tenacity as those radicals on the “alt Right” and “alt Left”.

It was coined in a new political book to describe the “[erstwhile] progressives too fond of blaming Russian trolls, fake news or dastardly Old Etonian data-scrapers from Cambridge Analytica for their failings”. Or, to put it another way, they blamed everything and everyone but themselves for the shocks of 2016 and 2017, when politics in the UK polarised between Brexiter Right and Corbynista Left. Having defined the mainstream of British politics from John Major to Tony Blair to Gordon Brown, they were D:Ream on vinyl in an age of Kendrick Lamar and Tidal.

So it was time for a rebrand. And the alt Centre label, if it sticks, sounds less Marks & Spencer than “Centrist Dads”, the pejorative badge awarded by Jeremy’s disciples to those worn-out Blairites talking earnestly at dinner parties about setting up another party — but never quite having the vim. So who are the alt Centre? Well, its Steve Bannon or Paul Mason is probably Andrew Adonis, the former Labour minister who also worked for the Tories. And there lies the work in progress, because Adonism is amorphously defined by unreconstructed opposition to Brexit, disgust at the pay packages of university vice- chancellors, a bit of Corbynism-lite and implacable anti anti-Semitism.

These may be themes that appeal to millions who feel disenfranchised by the current state of Labour and Tory parties — but in the absence of a British Macron or any kind institutional incarnation, the alt Centre looks like a cause without any serious rebels.

Taking Trump to task is too easy

Why did political journalists get so much abuse for not “challenging” Donald Trump during the press conference at Chequers last Friday?

A selection of the country’s finest reporters sat on fold-out chairs, ties and dresses limp in the heat, nursing two questions each in case their names were called when the final moment arrived.

When they were, they asked a range of things — the BBC about free trade, The Times about immigration. But Twitter lit up in outrage. Why? Because it hadn’t shouted at him, it hadn’t “challenged him to show basic knowledge on any issue”. Er, can we just imagine for a second how quizzing Trump on history and morality would have panned out?

And anyway, since when were journalists supposed to engage in slanging matches with Presidents and Prime Ministers in press conferences?

Press conferences are not the stocks. Reporters are not there to throw verbal cabbages and rotten tomatoes. Their point — especially those “impartial” broadcasters — is to ask questions that elicit telling answers.

It is then the job of the electorate to make of it what they will.

How does she nail all those manicures?

I’ve been marvelling at Theresa May’s nails. Where does she find time for so many colour changes? Over the past week there’s been scarlet for Donald Trump, hot pink for Wimbledon with William and Kate and murderous red for yesterday’s PMQs.

Even if it’s not a full manicure, just “shape and paint”, as it’s known, that’s still a half-hour of faff plus 20 minutes touch-drying time. Is she having them done during high-level meetings, while gesturing with her chin to any documents that need reading? Are her toes done at the same time — a beautician on a stool grating dead skin off her heel as she discusses the customs arrangement?

Or are these appointments scheduled in with what looks like a daily blow-dry? Because she’s had at least six different hairdos since that Chequers summit.

The joy of text? Not when it’s a barrage

This week’s lesson: beware men who send high volumes of texts. Uxoricidal Major Emile Cilliers exchanged 32,000 with a mistress in six months (that’s 200 a day) while his wife lay in hospital because he’d tampered with her parachute.

Married minister Andrew Griffiths sent a woman half his age 2,000 texts in 20 days. I once got 50 a day from a man who, it transpired, also texted two others. Why not call? Are texts more thrillingly illicit? Another man I knew sent about four a week. Frustrating, but maybe preferable.