Now what? - Lauren Booth avoids Cheriegate (almost)
Published 16 December 2002
I find myself defending Cherie's role in Bristolgate in a Hertfordshire pub
The Blairs are losing support on so many fronts that it's hard to keep up. During Bristolgate, my mobile has buzzed with increasingly desperate calls from news and features producers from White City to John O'Groats, asking, almost pleading: "Lauren, could we talk to you about Cherie . . ." Without, I hope, being too rude, I hang up as quickly as possible.
Writing about gurus and mates of the powerful is entertaining. Being called on as an unofficial spokesperson for the First Family is not.
I started wondering how we choose mates in this day and age. If you become "famous", school friends get weird and resentful or sell pictures of you with puppy fat to the tabloids.
Here's one cautionary tale.
Robbie Williams, the most eligible superstar of the age, went on a lonely binge-drinking session during which he befriended a group of noisy tabloid readers. The blokes, who drank for ten hours on their "mate" Robbie's tab, waited until he collapsed unconscious. Then they took humiliating photos of him and called a newspaper. Fame can be as lonely and depressing as anonymity.
The explosion in online dating reflects the fact that the old networks which once provided partners have shrivelled, leaving those "of a certain age" to browse in Ikea alone.
A single friend nearing her fifties answered an ad in the Guardian's lonely hearts pages some time ago. Once a deb, she should now be a deb's mummy - but isn't. Like many of her class, she pours affection into her horses and dogs, for whom she has sweet, affectionate nicknames. With her hair piled high and her favourite miniskirt shortened for the occasion, she went to meet her first ever blind date. A table had been booked in her name at the restaurant of a smart London hotel.
When she took her seat, she nearly fainted. Sitting shyly opposite her was an internationally recognisable pop singer. He'd just broken up from his wife of 20 years and because they shared the same group of friends (who took her "side" in the divorce), he had no one to ask about dating, bless him.
As impressed as my friend was with his politeness and candour, when I asked her if she'd see him again, she screamed: "No way! He's utterly boring. All he talked about was his ex and his kids."
Escaping the bleeping phones, on Friday I went to dinner in Hertfordshire with two great women friends. Both have always loathed politics; the very word bores them, as do endless news bulletins about people they've never heard of.
I felt saved, in the Christmassy pub, from any chance of "talking shop". I wanted to talk about babies, making shortbread and home-made Christmas cards. They'd already had a bottle of wine when I arrived.
Sophie, who is married to a fireman, started off with: "Well, what a greedy pair of twats they've turned out to be! What are they trying to do? Rub our noses in it?" She was growing excited, while my cheeks were turning scarlet: "My husband got an empty pay packet last week. Families can't afford to send their kids to university and we're struggling with our mortgage and they spend half a million like it's nothing . . ."
I tried to turn the talk back to Christmas, with a desperate attempt at camaraderie: "Remember when we went carol singing and got chased away . . ."
"And what sort of idiot allows a convicted conman to buy property in their name? Duu-uu-uh!"
I ended up playing the devil's advocate - here, in front of a pub audience of around six; and later, on Richard & Judy.
But I still doubt I'll ever be able to afford a home in Bristol.
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