I've been following with interest the Mark Thomas (comic genius or annoying lefty?) debate, started by Mick Hume in the New Statesman Diary.

I met Mark after one of his shows in 1997, while I was working as a volunteer for new Labour. I was hoping he would appear at a fundraising event in the Bristol West constituency. But, after seeing his Blair-is-the-Antichrist material at a gig in north London, I changed my mind. Instead of rushing backstage to his toilet-cum-dressing-room to preach the "message", I stayed glued to my seat and attempted to blend in with the wallpaper.

The other day, while rooting through piles of old newspapers and research, I found my notebook from that time. Underneath the desperate scribbling and red ink is a list of all the celebrities I called, asking them to appear a) in public with a shadow cabinet minister or b) at various party fundraisers. I cringe when reading it. It has brought back all the incredibly naive cock-ups I made. I mean, imagine suggesting to Mark Steel that he appear on a platform alongside Tony Blair, smiling and shaking hands with him.

An average page from the notebook reads like this: "Celebs willing to come out for NL: Sean Hughes (No), Jack Dee (No), Paul Merton (No), Charlie Cheese (available), Mark Thomas (NO!!), Jo Brand (NO!!!)."

There are ten more pages of the same. "Arts for Labour" had an impressive list of high-ranking celebrities - Richard Wilson, for example - but a new breed of talent was wanted: the sort of drug- taking, trendy, Top of the Pops bunch who later became known collectively as "Cool Britannia".

I remember that above my desk at John Smith House, there was a calendar that showed the whereabouts of all shadow cabinet ministers and their celebrity crowd-pullers. So, 20 April might say: "John Prescott's bus, Dagenham shopping centre, Michelle Collins from EastEnders."

One afternoon, as I sat staring at the blank spaces on Jack Straw's section of the calendar (not a popular celebrity gig), my extension rang. Eddie Izzard's personal assistant had called for a chat. As she outlined what her client would consider doing, my heart leapt in my chest: I'd be a real hero for landing a name such as Eddie Izzard. Unfortunately, things didn't quite work out that way. No sooner had I boasted to a colleague about the call, and celebrated with a cup of instant coffee, than my phone rang again. A stern, no- nonsense voice said: "It's Millbank here . . ." A young apparatchik tetchily told me to "lay off" Millbank's patch. The gist of the call was that our "little operation" should confine itself to the likes of the Krankies and Manhattan Transfer, because all the "new" names, and all the mega-celebrities such as Eddie Izzard and Mick Hucknall, "belonged" to either Anji Hunter or Margaret McDonagh.

That night, as I sat forlornly at the back of a comedy club trying to be invisible, Mark Thomas tapped me on the shoulder. He smiled and said politely: "You're the woman that phoned me from new Labour, aren't you?" I nodded, crushed that, even in a dimly lit basement club, I looked so obviously like a Millbank minion. "Look, no hard feelings, but your brother-in-law is a bit of a wanker, isn't he?"

In the end, the Bristol gig was made up of high- quality, non-celebrity comics, and Dawn Primarolo turned up to say a few words. It was a (minor) success.

The night of the election, I was with members of my family in Sedgefield. After dinner, I took Tony Blair to one side and whispered excitedly to him that I had raised "more than £5,000 for the Labour Party". Alastair Campbell strode towards us with news of the latest exit polls, and I remember being a little wounded at the rather limp "Ah . . . well done" that my brother-in-law threw my way as he was whisked back to the television.

But back then, I'd never heard of Bernie Ecclestone.

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