I hope Branson condoms are more reliable than his trains. Not so easy to switch routes if you are a sperm
Published 11 March 2002
Whatever next! After nude modelling for GQ, even more excitement for me when I appeared as NS cover girl with Cherie Blair and Pauline Prescott, posing as the political equivalent of footballers' wives. If you missed this gem, sorry, it's now a collector's item. Signed copies on request, but don't ask Cherie - I suspect Mrs High Moral Tony had a sense-of-humour failure.
Neil is bankrupt, so my fan mail is peppered with threatening letters from his trustee, who seeks to deprive me of my half of the roof over our heads. This charming fellow tried to flog Jonathan Aitken's confidential constituency correspondence, behaviour described as "repugnant and a gross invasion of privacy" by Mr Justice Rattee. (At least one judge believes the law should degenerate into justice occasionally.) Threatening faxes arrive at 21.10hrs. How sad to be bean-counting at that time. He is even trying to grab my famous 1976 cardboard Margaret Thatcher, whose basilisk stare has frightened undesirables away for a quarter of a century.
To higher things! - To heavenly Castle Howard to hear Commedia dell'Arte, masters of the art of Austro-Hungarian operetta. Transported to a world of operatic intrigue, backstabbing, plotting and comic cavortings was quite like old times at Westminster!
Imagine the opera niches for current politicians and scandals: Jo Moore, perfect for Cunning Little Vixen, Stephen Byers for Gotterdammerung. Turn of the Screw would suit Alastair Campbell, and the whole cabinet could appear in The Threepenny Opera. What joy to be a liberated lady. I have joined the 98 per cent of people who don't give a damn what goes on at Westminster.
I took Granny (my mother, immortalised by telling Louis Theroux: "I don't believe a word you say") to catch a Virgin train to Bristol. Three minutes to go and we were informed it was 80 minutes late from Glasgow and, therefore, would not even be passing through, let alone stopping, at Macclesfield. Just like that, a whole swathe of the journey was excised and I was left wondering how to get an 88-year-old lady to her important assignation. The local staff were endlessly polite and apologetic but, nevertheless, "Nah, there's no point driving 'er to Crewe - it ain't stopping there either." I need not have worried; Granny saw Hitler off, so she can certainly deal with Herr Branson. Muttering profanities about the "grinning pullover", she clambered aboard the next London train, changed at Stoke, again at Stafford, and arrived in Bristol an hour late.
I hope the Branson condoms are more reliable than his trains. Not so easy to switch routes if you are sperm. Her first-class ticket was useless - no first-class compartment. Espying the refreshment trolley parked in a luggage recess, she cheered up, but the Virgin apparatchik refused to serve her because it was stuck "in part of the train which does not meet hygiene regulations". Before you ask, yes, it was quite impossible to move it to a more hygienic spot.
Having left the fantasy world of politics for the real world of TV, life is never dull. Dressing as drag queens, a sight sadly confined to BBC viewers in Ireland, was splendid. Lily Savage would have ravaged me, I was so totally and utterly convincing. What joy to wear false eyelashes, a wig and an utterly ridiculous stretchy sequinned gown. No wonder the boys have all the fun. It was the first time Neil had dressed as a woman. He looked gorgeous and I quite fancied him.
Inspired by Tony Benn (a hero of mine - great parliamentarian and gent), I am taking to the provincial stage, starting this Friday in Suffolk. I worry that no one will turn up (possible if they travel by Virgin) to my one-woman show, An Evening with Christine Hamilton. I do intend to make some changes to the Benn format. Not for me his cardigan, pipe and flask of tea: my props are an evening gown and a glass of champagne. Like him, I have an image to maintain.
I was quietly wondering what highlights to share with you when the telephone rang. It was Matthew Norman's secretary. Lefty readers will know him as the Guardian diary editor. Matthew had asked her to ring because he was coming north to watch a Spurs match. Manchester doesn't have a Ritz Hotel so he thought laterally. Could he stay with us, paying the princely sum of £150 for the privilege? He did not specify whether he wished to sleep in our Margaret Hilda Thatcher Suite (electric blue), the Barbara Cartland Suite (candyfloss pink), the Church bedroom (with splendid view of graveyard) or the nursery.
So fantastic a proposition could not be a hoax. I have never met Mr Norman. He may be entertaining and convivial. He may even be a Tory spy at Farringdon Road - after all, he writes a restaurant column in the Sunday Telegraph Magazine (formerly edited by his wife, Rebecca Tyrrel). Possibly he fancied a slice of the hospitality we gave Louis Theroux, especially the TLC I applied on the sofa against the romantic flickerings of the log fire. Sadly, I had to disappoint him. Matthew's day job is with the Guardian, Fayed's faithful ally in many battles against us. What would I want with a Guardian journo in my dog kennel for five seconds, let alone in my bed for the night? Good try, Matthew, but we are not as daft as, clearly, you think we are. My Cheshire breakfasts are indeed legendary, but I reserve them for friends.
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