Sadly, insight is delivered sparingly, and the shade of Mr Pooter, only without such good jokes, hovers over these pages more than is comfortable. Ingham is not what one might call a master of narrative or of colour; his life as Mrs Thatcher’s bridge to the press was relentless, and so, unfortunately, is his account of these final two years of it...Iain Dale, who has edited the volume, appears to have done a remarkable job to make it as interesting as it is, though I fear some of the interest is bred of the diaries’ unintended humour. Ingham, who I am willing to believe has a heart of gold, developed the persona of a bluff, gruff, heavily-eyebrowed Yorkshireman whose catchphrase was “bunkum and balderdash”. Nuance was not a word in his vocabulary. Yet for all Dale’s efforts, these diaries are intensely unsatisfactory.