A Spin Doctor writes...

IT beggars belief. That's all I can say. It simply beggars belief that during London Fashion Week, a celebration of British creativity of which we can surely all be proud, people can still be negative. The carping and the sniping go on. I have let it be known that I am contemptuous of suggestions made by my political enemies that, as president of the Society of Image Consultants, I acted improperly by hosting a dinner at which professional delegates were invited to make a contribution to the Labour Party. I am sick to the back teeth of whingeing on this issue. So yes, it is true, there is something of a constitutional anomaly between my position as president and my position as someone committed to streamlining New Labour's message- grid.

Yes, it's true that as president I do have the power to appoint the judges of the Society's annual Golden Message awards, sponsored by Nokia. And, as president, I have the personal prerogative of appointing "silks", that is, especially distinguished PR professionals who are thenceforth entitled to style themselves with the letters QC, or Quality Creator, and quadruple their already handsome fees.

The dinner was an entirely private affair held at the Atlantic near Piccadilly Circus, just over the road from the lovely Regent Palace Hotel.

It's a favoured venue of mine. Once the 600 guests were seated, I was "piped in", as is the Society's tradition, and I took up my position on a large gilt chair at the high table on the dais. But before any of the assembled company could get stuck into the saddle of lamb or the vegetarian and vegan options, I rang a small silver bell and called for silence, which was enforced by one of the six Beadles in attendance. "Perhaps honourable members of the Society would like to contribute at least a 1,000 to the party?" I announced.

"Names of those contributing or not contributing will be noted." At this point, I am sorry to say that Sir Tim Bell, a society member of what I call the "pre-May '97 vintage", was moved to voice an objection on the specious grounds of political bias. I am afraid I was lured into a personal dispute with Sir Tim, shouting: "You're finished in image consultancy! I can break you, Bell, just like that!" and snapped a breadstick in front of him.

It was not a good moment. It has made me quite jittery all this week, and I have been hardly able to concentrate on helping my pro bono client: young Leon McEwan, who I was able to hook up with The Sun newspaper in the matter of the letters he has in his possession which shed important light in the Bulger case. (I have not accepted a penny piece for this, incidentally, though naturally reserving some interest in the photographic rights.) BUT also, and even more importantly, there is my old friend Esther Rantzen, who has been made the subject of extraordinary obloquy in the Press because she just said what she thought about her late husband's late first wife, and there's been some very unfortunate comment by her lovely but misguided stepdaughter Cassie.

So let's just have some plain speaking, shall we? Emotional truth hurts. And emotional truth is what Esther is dealing in. Sure, we all need some laughter to go with the tears. Esther knows that. It's why she featured penis-shaped carrots and Cyril Fletcher's Odd Odes. It's why she gave a job to Shaun Woodward. But sometimes you just have to tell it like it is. You have to flick off the scab and rip open the wound.

You have to let the poison out. You have to let all that hurt out. Only then can the healing begin.

Only last night, Normandie and I invited Esther round for dinner at our west London apartment to discuss this situation, thrash out some radio and TV appearances etc.

"Gosh you're looking as dumpy as a heifer, Normandie, pregnancy or no pregnancy," said Esther, "at least that's what Tad was telling me."

Later, Esther remarked: "Gosh, Tad, while you were in the kitchen, Normandie said she was worried about your failing sexual performance." We were Mr and Mrs Grumpy-boots by the end of the evening, but Esther encouraged us not to bottle up our feelings, and there were a few tears on both sides, which must have helped, and Esther was absolutely glowing at the emotional catharsis she'd brought about.

That's the sort of woman she is.

She has a gift for locating our vulnerabilities so that she can apply the balm of her compassion. And I'm afraid some of the cynics in the media will never understand that.

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