With its top-class cast and horribly fascinating location there could scarcely be any more to love about the Mann saga
There are better ways to open a newspaper column than this, but please ignore most of what follows. It was all written in the grip of Stendhal syndrome. In case you are unfamiliar with the condition – and if you are, I urge you to co-opt it into your repertory company of imagined ailments at once – it was coined after the 19th-century French author Stendhal, and refers to an extreme reaction to a great concentration of beauty in one place. According to Stendhal, it befell him on his first visit to Florence, when he gazed up at Giotto's ceiling frescoes and "had palpitations of the heart … Life was drained from me. I walked with the fear of falling."
This week, I have mostly been suffering bouts of the same at the mere mention of the Simon Mann saga. One can be overcome by it anywhere. In the supermarket yesterday, I wondered how many enforced bathroom visits Mark Thatcher had rushed to make since hearing the news that the organiser of the faile