T he telephone rang at 7.45 a.m. It was a journalist
I know. She sounded tense. ‘Gyles,’ she said, ‘do you want to come out?’ ‘It’s a bit early, isn’t it, darling?’ I replied. ‘I mean, “come out”,’ she said with emphasis, adding, with a little laugh, ‘Everyone knows you’re gay.’ ‘Do they?’ I asked. ‘Am I?’ ‘Oh, come on,’ she persisted, ‘Frankie Howerd made a pass at you once, didn’t he?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘And you knew Ted Heath?’ ‘Er ... yes.’ ‘Well?’ she said. I put the phone down. What is this bizarre obsession we have with the sexual orientation of others? Frankie Howerd was certainly promiscuous (and, oddly, in the habit of propositioning straight men — perhaps rejection was his bag?), but if anyone manages to turn up hard evidence that Ted Heath walked with a squeak, I’ll be surprised. Of course, if it does transpire that there was a touch of the Tommy-two-ways about our Ted, it just shows you what a truly modern Tory he was.
Today I saw Gordon Brown and Ian McKellen in the same room! True, they weren’t actually speaking to one another, let alone holding hands, but what do you think? When I was an MP and in the government whips’ office I was tasked with investigating rumours that Gordon Brown was gay. He was in his forties, unmarried, and there was something suggestive about the way he moved his jaw ... Over several months, I dug deep (really deep) and discovered nothing. I like Mr Brown. In person he is not the least bit dour. When I went last to 11 Downing Street as his guest, he was hosting a private evening of poetry readings. (He read the opening poem himself, and rather beautifully.) Today Brown, a genial and civilised man, was in Stratford-upon-Avon with Sir Ian McKellen (who was sporting a MacBeth tartan tie, incidentally), Sir Donald Sinden (in a bright orange Hi-de-Hi blazer) and other welldressed theatrical luminaries, to celebrate Shakespeare’s birthday and the end of the Royal Shakespeare Company’s Complete Works season. It was a great day and Gordon seemed to have a good time, but I felt sorry for him. Some of the more cynical luvvies reckoned that he’d come to Stratford (children in tow) not to see but to be seen and to advertise his admiration for England’s national poet. Who’d be a politician?
Never mind Blair’s legacy, what’s yours? In the ten years since that bizarre summer of hysteria — it began with Blair’s accession; it ended with Diana’s death; the over-emotional reaction to both events could not possibly be sustained — what have you done that’s so amazing? Me? Not a lot. Certainly, not enough. In the Blair landslide, I lost my seat. For a while I hankered to get back into the House of Commons, but my wife said, ‘The people have spoken, Gyles. Listen to the people.’ Now, after a decade of the portfolio life, my wife is telling me to take heed of what she claims are the three most powerful words in the entrepreneur’s lexicon: ‘Don’t dabble, focus.’ While Tony Blair begins to think about his next career move, I have already settled on mine. I am now a full-time writer of detective fiction. I have signed a multibook contract and my first effort — a Victorian murder mystery in the tradition of Arthur Conan Doyle in which Oscar Wilde features as the detective comes out this week. (When I say it ‘comes out’, I mean it’s published.) Today I went to a warehouse to sign 1,000 copies of my book. The bookseller looking after me advised me not to raise my hopes. ‘There are 200,000 titles published each year in the UK and we reckon that the average serious book-buyer buys just six, so the odds are stacked against you.’ I asked him what makes a book sell. ‘The public will buy a book if they like you,’ he said. ‘It’s as simple as that. This Christmas everyone will buy Dawn French’s autobiography. They love her. Last Christmas, nobody bought David Blunkett’s diaries. They can’t stand him.’ ‘What about my book?’ I asked wanly. ‘Your name’s pretty small on the cover and it’s a detective story about Oscar Wilde. People like detectives and they like Oscar Wilde, so you might be OK.’ At the Windsor Festival Literary Lunch, I was touting my wares alongside Lady Annabel Goldsmith. She showed off her fine nut-brown bosom and gave a funny and touching speech about her dog, the subject of her book. She also, before speaking, while chatting to the governor of Windsor Castle, reapplied her lipstick. I have no problem with ladies fine-tuning their toilette in public (the Queen does it), but I wonder why it’s acceptable for Her Majesty and Lady Annabel to apply their lipstick in front of all and sundry and unacceptable for Kate Middleton’s mother to use the word ‘toilet’ in so-called polite society. As it happens, young people (including my children and Prince Harry) use the word toilet. As far as I’m concerned, it’s all over for ‘lavatory’, and ‘loo’ sounds absurd. Take it from me, in 2007, among the now generation, ‘toilet’ is the correct usage.
Poor Lord Browne of BP. He went to court and lied and brought about his own downfall. He seems to have done in 2007 exactly what Oscar Wilde did in 1895. ‘Scandals used to lend charm, or at least interest, to a man,’ said Oscar. ‘Now they crush him.’ Oscar Wilde and the Candlelight Murders is published by John Murray at £12.99.
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