Singular life
He didn't even nibble
Petronella Wyatt
Ifirst met Mr Cook at a racecourse. Cheltenham to be precise. It was in the Grandstand, though I'm not sure it was quite grand enough for our Foreign Secre- tary's exacting tastes. Mr Cook was sitting at a table. My companion, who knew many senior Labour politicians, decided to intro- duce us with the somewhat suggestive words: Petronella is a great admirer of yours.'
Mr Cook at once seized upon this as a hyena lunges for meat that has been thrown in his path. After my companion had left, he giggled and complimented me upon my percipience. He called me passing fair. After his fourth glass of brandy he proceeded to make what might be called a fair pass. It was only when they announced the runners for the Gold Cup that I was able to extricate myself.
The thing was shocking. But before Mr Cook consults his lawyers, it was shocking because our meeting didn't happen like this at all. According to Margaret Cook's wed-and-smash-over-the-head memoirs, the Foreign Secretary is a compulsive wom- aniser. Again, according to Mrs Cook, he `would have gone with anyone who was suf- ficiently compliant and presentable'.
Well, with me he never bit once. Not even nibbled. He talked of bookies, punters and horses with a throbbing passion, but he never talked of sex. How I plied him with bait as I bade him examine 'the best turned- out horse'. How I winked whenever he men- tioned the finishing stand. Oh, we discussed `form' all right, but it was never my form.
Why not, I want to know? What was wrong with me? Apparently I was compli- ant. Obviously I was not presentable. I met Mr Cook on racecourses several times after that and it was always the same. Nor was there much evidence of an irredeemable sop whose life was one long alchoholiday. As the crowds around us became ever more debauched, swooping upon the liquor, Mr Cook displayed what can only be described as sobriety.
Still, Margaret Cook's allegations remain. A Slight and Delicate Creature is one long, uninterrupted allegation. Fortu- nately for Mr Cook, I am in a position to ease his suffering. Embarrassing books are things with which I have become oddly familiar. This is because, as you doubtless know, Macmillan recently published my father's secret journals. Aside from carpet- ing all our friends, it contained a few `embarrassing allegations' about myself. It didn't quite assert that my regular habitat was the floor and my regular tipple a whole bottle of brandy, but it was stinging stuff just the same.
It occurred to me, therefore, that Mr Cook might do with some advice. An inci- dent such as this is rather like a death. In company, do you bring it up at once, or ignore it completely? When others mention it, does one become righteously angry or gaily flick the dust from one's immaculate cuffs? So here goes, Mr Cook. Here are some tips from an expert (though no thanks for those lousy tips you gave me at Cheltenham).
When people ask if you mind your wife calling you a drunk who falls on the floor, look withering and say you were merely in the tradition of great politicians of the past, such as Pitt the Younger. It is all part of the Labour renaissance. Explain that Pitt was even sick into a bowl while making a speech in the House of Commons. Alterna- ively, remark, 'If you think I drink you should see Gordon Brown.' (Mr Brown is not a boozer, actually, but this is war.) When they commiserate over your wife's allegation of impotence, laugh and say that semantics was never Margaret's strong point. She obviously meant omnipotent.
When the Prime Minister asks if it is true you hate his guts, counter that your wife must have been thinking of someone else. Evidently she confused you with Charlie Whelan. As for the claim that the PM's decision to send his son to private school gave you digestive problems, what it actual- ly gave you was restive problems. You were so excited by the news you were unable to sleep. When journalists insist you must be devastated by revelations of those extra- marital affairs, say on the contrary you are delighted. Now the world will know what a success you are with women, despite sport- ing a funny red beard. As for Margaret's claim that you are a callous shit, she really meant you are a fabulous wit. These things are easily muddled.
Another option is to declare the book a forgery and its author an imposter. 'That isn't the real Margaret Cook,' you can announce, 'it's someone pretending to be Margaret Cook. It must be one of those women who threw themselves at me but whom I was forced to rebuff.' Finally, Mr Cook can always write a book himself set- ting the record straight. This is what I am doing, at any rate.
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