The Lost Diaries. Craig Brown

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СКАЧАТЬ his old flared jeans, the lovely Ken and Barbara Follett, Tony, me, Jack Straw (looking very casual in a cravat over a beige polo-neck), Margaret Beckett (ex-Steeleye Span, of course) and John Prescott (squeezed into his velvet loon pants) were lucky enough to share a table with the super young lads from Oasis.

      At dinner, we were keen to find out what the youth of Britain really thinks about the major issues confronting this country. Over soup, Margaret, sitting next to Noel Gallagher, suggested we might harness the great energy of Britpop to help solve some of the problems facing us. Noel brought the natural verve of youth to his reply. ‘Piss off, toothy,’ he said, reaching for another can of lager.

      ‘Thanks, Noel. I certainly think that response gives us much to build on,’ enthused Tony. ‘Any other suggestions, lads?’

      At that moment, the Oasis drummer removed Jack Straw’s specs and began to wiggle them round in the air with all the super high spirits of the young. Jack made it clear he was enjoying the joke tremendously by laughing for five to six seconds before saying, ‘Joke over, lads – joke over.’ But by this time the drummer had given them to the rhythm guitarist, who was now wearing them on his bottom.

      It was left to John Prescott to break the ice. ‘Are New Labour’s plans for the renationalisation of our railways exciting much interest among the young?’ he asked.

      ‘Speak up, fatty!’ replied Liam Gallagher, and we all laughed appreciatively at his rough-and-ready Scouse wit while he amiably sprayed us all with a frothed-up can of Special Brew.

      Tony has always been a terrific fan of pop music, and for much of the first session – by the exciting new band Blur – I noted he had his top set of teeth pressed over his bottom lip while his hands played along on his dummy guitar. Meanwhile, Jack Straw was busily trying to retrieve his spectacles, which by now had been passed by the rhythm guitarist of Oasis to the bass guitarist of Garbage, who had employed his lighter to bend them into some sort of abstract ‘mound’, reflecting the spiritual aspirations of the young.

      ‘I live in a house, in a very big house, in the countraaaay,’ sang Blur. I noticed that Margaret, having removed her straw hat with its lovely green ribbon, had got out her pocket calculator to work out how the aforementioned very big house in the country would be affected from a tax point of view under New Labour, if it was owner-occupied with a 50 per cent endowment mortgage, repayable over twenty-five years. ‘Best not tell him,’ she whispered to me, ‘but he’ll be 7 per cent worse off under New Labour.’

      Next came Tony’s big moment. He was presenting the Lifetime Achievement award to David Bowie, a personal favourite. Tony was wearing his loose-cut Armani dark suit with a floral tie, but beneath it – and this is what viewers couldn’t see – he was kitted out in a multicoloured Aladdin Sane bodystocking, ready to meet his hero.

      ‘It’s been a great year of energy, youth, vitality, and great, great music,’ began Tony, ‘and believe me, we in New Labour draw terrific inspiration from your tremendous efforts.’ Sadly, the rest of his speech was drowned out for me by the organist from Screwball vomiting over Ken Follett’s double-breasted Armani suit.

      

       PETER MANDELSON

       January 22nd

      To Buckingham Palace, to attend an investiture. Prince Philip greets me with his usual affectionate male banter. ‘What the hell are you doing here?’ he jests. ‘I thought I told them to keep you away!’

      I roar with infectious laughter as he turns on his heel – but with perfect timing I catch him just as he reaches the door. ‘You are an irrepressible old character, sir!’ I congratulate him. ‘A national treasure, forsooth!’

      At this point, the Prince raises a good-natured fist and socks me in the mouth.

      ‘Marvellous, sir!’ I enthuse, picking up my front teeth from the beautifully polished floor. ‘Have you ever heard my immortal anecdote about my meeting with Henry Cooper? Oh, but you MUST!’

      

       GYLES BRANDRETH

       January 23rd

      Last night at dinner, I was placed next to the German Chancellor, Adolf Hitler.

      The dinner consisted of a fine venison stew accompanied by potatoes dauphinoise. Adolf Hitler has a well-known temper, but I did not see it. Our talk revolved around a new musical in the West End, which he had not seen. Nor had I. I told him that I had been reliably informed by Sacheverell that it is quite marvellous, with colourful costumes, extravagant settings and a number of good tunes. He promised he will try to catch it if ever he manages to reach Britain. I noticed that he uses his napkin quite sparingly: unusual, I thought, for an Austrian.

      

       CLARISSA EDEN

      So Pete’s moved out he’s like so moved out at the end of the day he’s moved out tell me about it but I’m in a good place and my boobs are in a good place they’re really focused they’ve so talked it over, they work as a team say what you like they got respect for each other, I say to them let’s get round a table and talk it over if Pete doesn’t like them goin’ clubbin’ and havin’ a bit of fun well then that’s up to Pete at the end of the day it’s the children they’re concerned about their concern is for the children 110 per cent tell me about it so if they want to go out and have a bit of fun then I’ve got to be honest with you I’m not going to stop them.

      

       KATIE PRICE

       January 24th, 1925

      My Dear Lady Cunard,

      Thank you so much for that lovely stay last weekend. We both enjoyed ourselves very much. It was really very kind of you to have us.

      I do hope my little ‘diversion’ on Saturday evening wasn’t too awfully inconvenient for you, and that your servants have managed to get most of the mud out of the carpets! From something you said –or was it just a look? – I came away thinking that I may, in your eyes, have done something ‘wrong’. If so, I can only apologise, but what is a man if he cannot seize the moment to strip off all his loathsome lily-livered clothes and wrestle his fellow man naked, strong, tumultuous, full of the very urge of life that lies within them, and all in a deep, soft, dirty – real dirty – and splodgesome sea of mud.

      You may argue – in your typically grey, bourgeois, corrupt, stinking, decaying way – that I had no ‘right’ to order your gardeners to load ten, eleven, twelve wheelbarrows high with sludge from the ditches, wheel them into the blue drawing room and offload them in the area in front of the blazing fire. And you may also argue –loudmouthed bitch – that I could at least have rolled up your priceless carpet – symbol of all that is petty and extravagant and worthless in this age – and placed it to one side.

      Away with your arguments! An end to your grey, sniffy, hoity-toity objections! When I rolled with your stable lad in the mud, as we pummelled each other with our fists and each felt the brute within and the mud without, I at last felt free and open and alive and triumphant and, yes, pure! How dare you suggest that mud-wrestling between two men СКАЧАТЬ