At the 2006 Labour conference, The Sun’s political editor whispered a verbal billet-doux into Tom Watson’s ear. “My editor will pursue you for the rest of your life,” cooed George Pascoe-Watson. “She will never forgive you for what you did to Tony.”

Watson had just orchestrated the demi-coup which forced Tony Blair to give a departure date, and his chum Rebekah Brooks was livid. Whether the intervening years have mollified her is not clear.

It could be that Watson’s subsequent pursuit of News of the World phone-hacking, which obliged her to resign as News International chief executive and stand trial, softened her heart. Equally, it may not. In those nine years, Watson has twice resigned himself (first for acting as Gordon Brown’s enforcer in the removal of Blair; later as deputy chairman over the MP selection scandal in Falkirk), yet now finds himself deputy leader of a party looking to him to save it from annihilation in the savage civil war made inevitable by Jeremy Corbyn’s election.

Until a few days ago he held a strong hand, having the potential to be Corbyn’s protector or assassin as expediency demands. Then the tragicomic weakness of the Leon Brittan child abuse police investigation he encouraged the police to make was exposed, and the feud with Brooks was reactivated. A leader in The Sun on Sunday, the replacement for the title Watson helped to close, reported his Commons statement that Brittan was “as close to evil as any human being could get”. What it forgot to mention was that he was quoting an alleged victim, and the personal animus behind the vitriolic conclusion that “he has behaved contemptibly”. He has done no such thing. While under a clear duty to report accusations to the police, he did not excite the kind of hysteria – like Brooks when News of the World editor – that led a dyslexic mob to attack a female paediatrician mistaking her for a paedophile. Nonetheless, by overplaying his hand, the man who teased James Murdoch for being a mafia boss has given his enemies a gigantic gift. And these are not enemies who look a gift horse in the mouth. These are people who leave its severed head on the pillow while you sleep.

Whether Watson can survive this escalation of Brooks’ lifelong pursuit is not really the point. The question is whether a serial resigner, whose bulldozer looks and juggernaut reputation mask a brittle and sensitive nature, has the will to endure the ensuing torment.

Queen and Jez share interest

Despite Jeremy Corbyn’s failure to genuflect before his sovereign, a rapprochement with the monarch approaches. The reason Jez missed the Privy Council meeting, we learn, was an unavoidable engagement walking with his missus in the Highlands. Far from feeling “snubbed”, the Queen should approve. She has a bit of form (the aftermath of Diana’s death) for eschewing the dash back to town in favour of dallying in Scotland. Now she is aware that they share this interest, it can’t be long before she invites the Corbyns for a walking weekend at Balmoral. Who knows, he might even accept.

The lady's not for honouring

The latest snippets from Charles Moore’s elegant Margaret Thatcher hagiography include the nugget that nothing distressed the old girl like being denied an honorary degree by Oxford. Moore quotes Denis Thatcher describing it as the single most traumatic event of her premiership. This seems odd, considering the letters she wrote to the families of military casualties. Then again, George W Bush confessed in his memoir that his greatest regret was the photograph of him staring aloofly down on Hurricane Katrina-ravaged New Orleans from the window of Air Force One. Never easy to prioritise, is it?

Hammond makes history

The first JFK moment of the new parliament arrives. Will you ever forget where you were when you learned that Philip Hammond - the electrifying Foreign Secretary whose recorded speeches are piped through loud speakers whenever Bahrain riot police run out of CS gas - has ruled out a Tory leadership bid, and will support George Osborne in the hope of succeeding him as Chancellor? I won’t. I was in the garden, or the bath, or now I come to think of it possibly the car. Somewhere, anyway. A savage loss.

Regrets of a petrolhead