Throughout the land, Sophie Wessex is being branded a greedy and not very bright girl who "had it coming". But I'm inclined to feel a tiny bit sorry for her, now that she has been forced into purdah. It's not easy being discreet and sensible all the time, and it doesn't take a suite at the Dorchester and an Arab's chequebook to make most of us behave like idiots in front of total strangers. When you're a Sophie, a Lauren, a Fergie or a Terry, you are endlessly drilled for "innocent" titbits about people you may only vaguely know. The future is a dry desert of boring conversations doomed to fizzle out, as you nervously try to stick to answering "No comment" in response to every question from "When's the election, then?" to "Do you have the right time?".
But there is a riskier option: to stay as gossipy and opinionated as the rest of the world and hope you get away with it.
On Monday, the taxi driver taking me to review the papers on Sky TV asked: "That Tony Blair, then . . . Does he worry about going bald?" I bit my lip. The denials and witty asides bubble up in the throat a dozen times a day, but - as Sophie should have remembered - you have to try to swallow them. Most difficult of all to control is the desire finally to let rip. I'm certain that, one day soon, when someone comes over and asks another tedious question about the PM which I have no idea how to answer, I'll just blurt: "Yes, yes, he's as bald as a coot, smokes crack at breakfast and was born a woman, OK?" When that day comes, no one will care that I'm joking, and the only sound will be the click of a thousand tape recorders triumphantly being turned off. Perhaps that's what happened to the Countess of Wessex - she just got bored with her role as "relative of . . ." and cracked.
The set-up used by the News of the World is familiar to all in the eye of the media. Any offers of highly paid "sponsorship" deals and free meals at big hotels set the heart thumping. Recently, for example, a man contacted my agent and offered a suspiciously lucrative "promotional" contract. I was invited to have lunch at a top restaurant to discuss the potential of my "hosting" several high-class sporting events. Alarm bells started to ring.
Naturally, I went to the meeting - just in case. There, sitting at a quiet table (hmm, good choice for taping a conversation), was a crumpled little man. There was no way this nervous, shaking guy was the head of a successful corporation, no way. It took a tremendous effort not to sneer in disgust when his sweaty palm touched mine, and I spent the hour translating every word he spoke into what I imagined to be his real thoughts. Over langoustine and champagne (how coarse and obvious), he stuttered his idea to me. The "sponsors" he wanted to approach would ideally fly me to "Monaco", "Australia" or some other exotic Grand Prix location, where I would then give a welcoming speech to VIPs in return for megabucks and endless free trips.
He and his business (press) colleagues thought that, with my high profile (read: Cherie's), I would be perfect for their venture (or front page). To say that I was brusque, arrogant and rude is an understatement. Finally, after endless chat about his made-up firm, he got down to the real business of stitching me up. "So," he asked with strained indifference, "what's the PM really like, then?"
Shrugging on my jacket, I said: "Bye then. If you get something a lot more solid on paper, then get in touch with my agent. If not, don't bother, because I can't waste my time with this nonsense."
Some weeks later, an e-mail arrived from the company's headquarters saying that, although it had been "charming" to meet me, someone with stronger links to Formula One racing was now being considered. Ha, I'd won. Strangely, however, the company the man claimed to run does exist, and the phone numbers on his business card all check out . . . Oh shit.
