FOREIGN Secretary Jack Straw and the US Secretary of State, Condoleezza Rice, spent a bizarre week in each other’s company recently.
First came a visit to a city famous for bitter and noisy protests – Liverpool.
Then a tour around a hotbed of radical Muslim unrest – Blackburn, Lancashire.
So it was something of a relief when they reached the relative calm of the final stop in their three-cities tour – Baghdad.

In Liverpool and Blackburn, Condoleezza faced unpleasant personal insults. She was told she had “blood on her hands” because of the US-led military action in Iraq.
These protests were as ugly and ungracious as they were predictable and politically naïve.
But like the star she is, Dr Rice shone through it all with dignity, grace and humour.
A morality and a firmness of purpose such as hers is not going to be shaken by insults hurled from the gutter.
I’d invite her back to Merseyside anytime . She can join me for drinks and nibbles in Hell’s Waiting Room, New Brighton, where she would certainly receive a warmer reception than she got in Liverpool.
For some reason the intelligent, witty, elegant and charming Condoleezza, enjoys the company of our Foreign Secretary. What does she see in him that we all miss?
Jack Straw is the epitome of greyness. He is greyer even than John Major and has even less charisma than the hopeless Tory PM of a decade ago.
Apart from politics, Straw has no experience of life. A privately educated toff, and the son of socialist pacifist parents, he followed a classic nerd’s path and went straight into politics after university.
First, he became left-wing leader of the National Union of Students in the late 1960s, instead of getting a real job, and from then on he “worked” his way up the greasy pole of Labour politics.
Though he is now doing much of the diplomatic donkey-work in trying to bring peace and freedom to Iraq (which is to be commended), he has not exactly been a strong Foreign Secretary , because, as everyone knows, Tony Blair is really the man who runs British foreign policy.
Still, the Condie and Jack Show is one of the most entertaining in politics. He becomes coy and giggly in her presence, like a schoolboy with a crush on a teacher.
Dr Rice’s visits to Liverpool was an honour for the city. What a pity that the boorish anti-war movement chose to display such rank bad manners.
Shame on the demonstrators. I would like to present each of them with a big white feather – the traditional reproach to those who lack the guts to get behind their country in an armed conflict.

TALKING of conflict, I was caught up in some myself at Hell’s Waiting Room, New Brighton, last week.
I’d been having a few glasses of wine with some chums in the front lounge when a fellow came in and started to pick arguments with me.
He was giving me the evil eye for an hour or so. That rarely happens to me and I simply couldn’t understand his hostility.
Eventually, as they say in these parts, I saw my arse over his behaviour and got up to leave the pub as the atmosphere was turning unpleasant. It was very near chucking out time by then, anyway.
The man (I still don’t know his name) tried to make me stay, for some reason, but I absolutely insisted on leaving.
And as I brushed past him on the way out he head-butted me.
Now I am not what you’d call a scrapper so I continued on my way, in something of a daze, it must be said, and left the pub.
In my wake there was a bit of a scuffle and my attacker was restrained. I’m told he’s now been barred.
I wasn’t badly hurt but it was certainly an unpleasant experience.
As I say, I’m no scrapper, but nor am I someone who can be bullied or intimidated, so I was back in the pub the very next night.
Everyone was very solicitous of my welfare on my return. Free drinks were offered and everyone wanted to know was I all right and what had happened.
I was able to tell them I was OK but I couldn’t shed much light on why this man had developed such a strong reaction to me. I think most people regard me as a goodish and decent man, if a bit boring. My only real fault is grumpiness.
I was particularly grateful to the fine lads I call the St Helens Posse, who usually inhabit the passageway in the Waiting Room (which operates as a sort fifth room in this old-fashioned multi-roomed pub).
Apparently, they were quick to come to my aid on the night of the attack, not that I hung around to find out…
I think I get some grudging respect from the St Helens lads, you see, because I come from Wigan, home to the most successful rugby league club in history (despite a recent, temporary loss of form) … unlike St Helens.
And some days after my attack a pal of mine from the Waiting Room, Slutty Hardman (now he is scrapper ... apparently), was concerned about what has happened to me.
“Why didn’t you ring me?” he demanded.
“Yeah, well, I will next time, Slutty, thanks …”
Next time someone is raining blows down on me, I will pipe up: “Please sir, desist from this attack upon my person, I beg of you, just for a few moments, while I ring for assistance to my friend Mr Slutty Hardman. He is but a short omnibus ride away in Moreton and will be along within the hour.”

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