Henry Deedes' Media Diary

It has been, to put it mildly, a baptism of fire for Andy Coulson since taking the controls at David Cameron's previously well-oiled press machine. Those rebellious MPs aside, he's also had to fend off criticism aimed at his boss for shunning his flooded Whitney constituency and opting to elope to Rwanda instead.

Funnily enough, the Rwanda trip – where 40-odd Tory volunteers embarked on a Challenge Anneka-type mission to turn a derelict orphanage into a school – bears an uncanny resemblance to a wheeze Coulson once had at News of the World after the Asian tsunami. The former Wapping man became obsessed with the idea of the Screws sponsoring the rebuilding of a village destroyed in the 2004 disaster, and was even willing to stump up £3m of Rupert's cash for the pleasure.

Sadly, the bean counters at Tsunami Appeal, while no doubt extremely grateful for the gesture, weren't entirely convinced. They claimed it would be more beneficial for the cash to be spread over the entire affected region, though the possibility that the village might have to be renamed with the appendix "We're Big on Sundays" beneath its title may have played a role in their decision.

* In Los Angeles, Toby Young's memoir How to Lose Friends and Alienate People is finally getting the Hollywood treatment, with Gillian Anderson among the cast. Young, I hear, has managed to bag himself a walk-on part in the flick, which describes his calamitous time in New York as a scribe for Vanity Fair.

You could say this marks yet another genius bit of cost-cutting by producers already assured to save themselves a bundle on the movie's marketing budget thanks to Young's salacious appetite for self-promotion.

* Amid rumours of the tectonic plates shifting at the Daily Mail, there's to be a changing of the guard upstairs at The Mail on Sunday. Peter Dobbie, the paper's executive editor and columnist, has told chums he'll be departing Derry Street some time later this year. Dobbie, who has been at the MoS since its inception 25 years ago, will most fondly be remembered by staff for once placing David Mellor in a headlock when the former Tory minister delivered a scoop to a rival paper that the Associated man believed had been promised to him.

* Choppy waters at ITV, where makers of the documentary Malcolm and Barbara: Love's Farewell were forced to confess that an Alzheimer's sufferer who'd supposedly "passed away" in the final scene didn't actually die until three days later.

The press hoopla that inevitably ensued was speedily met with a statement from the channel's director of television, Simon Shaps. Though this conjures a stirring image of the diminutive Shaps doughtily grasping the helm and steadying the ship at Grays Inn Road, I gather that he actually composed the missive while enjoying a relaxing holiday in sunny France. Those BlackBerry thingamajigs. Whatever did we do without them?

* Back over to the marbled halls of Associated Newspapers, where the London Evening Standard's Londoner's Diary column printed a retraction about a story it ran on the fiery chef Marco Pierre White. By all accounts, it was bit of stinker (apparently White never did bash one of his chefs around the head with a frying pan) but I can't help feel Marco would have been better off kicking diarists where it really hurts: their precious expense accounts.

Alan Clark had the right idea. After the editor of The Daily Telegraph's (now defunct) Peterborough column had become a minor thorn in his side, the late, great Tory shagger agreed to bury the hatchet over lunch at the Savoy Grill. Deliberately arriving half an hour early, Clark not only ordered the costliest bottle of Burgundy, he then ate his way through the priciest items on the menu.

It's not known if the astronomically sized chit made it past the managing editor's in-tray, though happily the incident occurred well before the current Telegraph administration's mingy lunch diktat of one glass per person.

* Speaking of which, reports emerge from Telegraph towers that several dead mice have been discovered rotting inside the drawers at the comment desk. Presumably, this is due to a wider infestation of rodents in the Telegraph's swanky new offices. Understandably, though, some hacks are wary of something more sinister: a horse's-head-in-the-bed-style warning from the Don Corleones peering down from the executive glass boxes above the news hub.

* To Docklands, where the artist, Prince, is currently performing at the venue formerly known as the Millennium Dome. Last Wednesday's show saw an assortment of media types gather to accept the generous hospitality of Gary Farrow, PR to the stars. Most in the private box bopped the night away with Farrow's champagne. Not so Helen Johnston, editor of the weekly celeb-packed glossy Now, who eschewed the fizz to spend most of her evening playing "kissyface" in the corner with her exotic young beau. As the caption in her mag might read: getta room, love.

* The final word falls to the former Mirror editor Richard Stott, who passed away last week. I am reminded of Stott's response when, not long after the body of his paper's proprietor, Robert Maxwell, was found floating in the Atlantic, he was quizzed by reporters how "Captain Bob" sounded the last time the pair of them spoke. "He seemed," Stott replied, "very buoyant."