None of this doublethink is remotely fresh, as I said, which begs a question about The Times’s news judgment. Now me, had I been interviewing him, I’d have taken advantage of Papa Murdoch’s legendary hands-off approach to editorial content to ask about the baptism.  Why did he absent himself from the Hello! photo shoot that featured Grace and her sister, their parents and his fellow godparents Nicole Kidman and Hugh Jackman, all clad in the same white garments – unseen on a public figure since the Maharishi entertained the Beatles – which Mr Tony wore himself? A sense of shame being absent from the Blairite emotional arsenal, it cannot have been that. Did the vista of the girls being baptised in the same waters as Jesus overwhelm him, and cause him a Stendhal Syndrome-style faint?  Was Cherie present, and if not, why not? Was the Murdoch private jet already full of Australian film stars? Or did she turn around at the Heathrow check-in on receiving a text message from a News Corp vice president (Unwittingly Self-Parodic Baptisms) that she would not, after all, be permitted to take a JCB digger to the river bank, and fill her trolley with soil later to be sold on eBay to collectors of holy relics?  The most impenetrable question, however, is this. Who, in biblical terms, does Tony Blair think he is? Palpably there is a messianic complex at work, as evidenced by his stewardship of that  “Faith Foundation”, to go with the Narcissistic Personal Disorder. But which specific one?  What makes the diagnosis tricky is his habit of switching between the Testaments. In his final conference speech as Labour leader, for instance, he was Moses, fated to lead the Children of New Labour out of bondage, but destined to perish before entering the Promised Land. At other times – perhaps deliberately, more likely subconsciously – he has echoed Christ. In his memoir, he refers to Lord Mandelson as “my rock”, precisely as Jesus did with an earlier Peter,  On the basis that this pun (petra being the Greek for rock) is the only attempt at wit in the entire Bible, theologians have tended to doubt that God has a sense of humour. Observing Mr Blair in his myriad guises – sworn foe of media “feral beasts” who doubles up as Murdoch godfather; Middle Eastern peacemaker who advocates bombing the hell out of Tehran; fearless hammer of mad tyrants who spent a decade appeasing Gordon Brown – I’m not so sure.  How could a humourless God have created Tony Blair? Of course, one sees his value to a benign deity as a human weapon of mass destruction. Those whom the gods wish to destroy (Mubarak, Gaddafi, Berlusconi, Rebekah Brooks, Rupert himself), they first curse with his friendship. But even more than as the Bizarro World Midas whose touch transforms his golden chums into toxic waste, it is as the standout global comic figure of the age that he will one day be celebrated.  It will take a good while, because comedy equals tragedy plus time. No one split their sides in Rome while Caligula was illuminating imperial garden dinner parties by tarring Senators and igniting them, but you have to chuckle now. Allow a few decades to dull the memory of the untold damage Mr Blair wrought on Britain and the wider world, and he will take his rightful place in the Chamber of Mirthful Horrors. In the meantime, the fungal infection will sporadically erupt, and we must scratch at it as best we may.
His role on the banks of the Jordan as godfather to Rupert Murdoch's daughter    Grace is just one of the things that make Tony Blair a great global comedy    figure.