Mike's 500-mile trek to reach the Mayor's office

* Six months ago, Pandora reported that the 1980s pop picker Mike Read was in talks to stand as the Conservative Party's London mayoral candidate against Ken Livingstone. He was a surprise guest at the conference dinner, performing a "10-minute political rap" for the lucky diners.

Last night, however, Read failed to turn up for an interview with the leading Conservative blogger Iain Dale, raising questions over his commitment.

Dale has a readership nearing 225,000 - many of them the urban, liberal Tories that Read must win over - and had given the DJ a one-hour slot on the television station 18 Doughty Street to establish his credentials. Read pulled out yesterday.

"The bastard," mutters Dale. "He said that he asked someone to phone us last week, because he's 'on a charity walk' today. But no one did, and that's not much use with a live broadcast.

"Instead, we're going to re-broadcast an hour of Peter Tatchell. That seemed a fitting replacement."

Read was on the Humber Bridge when I called, walking 500 miles from Edinburgh to London in honour of the current No 1 song by The Proclaimers. "I helped to discover The Proclaimers and had to go off on this for Channel 4, two days' notice.

"It's a bit windy. It's just me. It's for Comic Relief, although we're not actually shaking buckets along the way. Tomorrow is Scunthorpe, then Cleethorpes."

Read has some distance to cover if his final destination is to be the "glass testicle" that Ken Livingstone inhabits on the South Bank of the Thames.

* The English dramatist Steven Berkoff, a Labour supporter - has penned a dark comedy about the implosion of Tony Blair's premiership. And, as luck has it, the first page of the script for the tentatively titled Albion has fallen into Pandora's sweaty clasp.

The curtain rises on an agitated Cherie and Tony, upset by criticism of her hairdressing expenses. Cherie, in verse: "Like Boadicea I must seem the sunlight's sparkling little glints upon my new-oiled precious curls. That's worth a mere 250+ a day my darling don't you think? How the filthy British press can't wait to make their rancid stink."

Tony agrees: "Like we should live like monks, or purer and wear a loincloth round our limbs."

Cherie: "Take care, we're in the stinking public eye, a great big bloody bulging orb that sits above a filthy yelping mouth that just can't wait to squeal and shout. So have a care: be subtle when you claim - those dodgy expenses - play the game."

The script is only an early draft; Berkoff is revising it and talking to producers.

* The success of 1970s cop drama Life on Mars hasn't just put sheepskin coats and scabby kipper ties back in vogue. It has also jacked up the price of Ford Cortinas, regardless of the amount of bumper filler holding the thing together.

An orange 1973 model, similar to the one driven so excitably by actors John Simm and Philip Glenister in the recently finished series, has just popped up on auction site eBay.

Although it has been off the road since 1991, has a bit of surface rust and rot and "may need some welding", the motor has already picked up 17 offers; the highest stood at £1,220 with more than a day of bidding to come.

The current media-savvy owner explains: "I am selling the car as a project." And for a healthy profit.

* Six months ago, the itched-for "PR Consultancy of the Year" gong went to the Blue Rubicon agency for its work with the likes of McDonald's and 3 Mobile. PR Week breathlessly reported: "The agency has doubled its fee income for the second year running and picked up briefs for the Learning and Skills Council, the NHS and the police." Perhaps rivals pondered the secret of the firm's success?

Its business practices seem unconventional. Consultant Rob Blackie, who handles an account for Shell, has called in his colleagues for a "Springboard brainstorm", whatever that is, this afternoon. "Just a reminder," reads the leaked email. "It's with the client at 4pm in the Wankatorium."

Alarming honesty! Now everyone will want one.

* Tuesday evening brought the annual Grand National dinner at White's club in Mayfair, ahead of Saturday's fixture at Aintree. I hear that racehorse trainer Kim Bailey's journey home from London took a little longer than he had planned for.

Bailey, a former National winner with Mr Frisk back in 1990, arranged for an agency chauffeur to meet him after the bash and drive him in his own car on the 200-odd mile journey back to Gloucestershire. Having set his sat-nav device for "home", Bailey promptly nodded off on the back seat.

Unfortunately, he had failed to change the directions for "home" since moving to his new yard in the Cotswolds, and awoke from his (no doubt) claret-induced doze to find that the driver had delivered him in good time back to his old home in Northamptonshire. Doh!

pandora@independent.co.uk