It was the heady days of the early 1980s when Thatcherism was in its heyday and the Iron Lady was riding the crest of a wave having won the Falklands War and her second election.
I was a new boy, a spad, that’s a special adviser, seconded from Conservative Central Office and I was on cloud nine, being in Downing Street at the centre of exciting times. Of course, I didn’t have any special knowledge or ability but my father had been at Eton with one of Maggie’s ministers, so he fixed it for me. No, I wouldn’t call that nepotism and in fact I don’t even know what that word means.
I had been warned not to go to the men’s toilets alone, which I found a bit strange but, not bothering to take on board this advice, I found myself at a urinal unaccompanied when I heard the door open and suddenly I detected the aroma of hair lacquer and the smell of Scotch whisky. As I looked towards the door, I realised a blonde head was beside to me as a hand grabbed my testicles while I was in mid flow. No, it wasn’t Michael Heseltine, thank God.
That grating voice said “I do like to know that my male staff members have balls. Yes, I can safely say you seem to have a good pair and you do seem pleased to see me.”
I have to tell you that not only was Lady Thatcher the Iron Lady but she also had an iron grip and when she transferred that to my old chap it wasn’t long before I showed my appreciation. After that she told me “I do like it when one of my staff shows he has spunk and you’ve certainly done that today” before washing her hands and leaving me in a state of shock.
Even today, almost forty years afterwards, when I am in the mood, I get my wife or girlfriend to knock back a Famous Grouse and spray the room with hair lacquer before a sexual liaison in order to get off and when I do, I can’t help but moan “Yes, yes, prime minister”. These things never leave you.
Boris Johnson (a pseudonym) later rose to become leader of the Conservative Party and prime minister despite his untrustworthiness, lack of ability and incompetence.
