DIARY
My first error was to be noticed danc- ing joyfully outside the Festival Hall on the morning of Labour's glorious victory, like some Christian fundamentalist who had just met the Lord himself. Later that day, there I was again, sobbing proudly as mem- bers of my family, including my sister Cherie, crossed the threshold of No. 10. The mischief-making Simon Sebag Monte- fiore called me 'the people's sister-in-law' in his Sunday Times column, and it brought home to me the bizarre changes to my way of life since 1 May. To witness a historic moment can have peculiar repercussions. That moment for me was realised as I watched my charming, Marmite-sandwich- making brother-in-law change before my eyes at his Sedgefield constituency count Into 'our leader' — warmer than Pitt the Younger, more flamboyant than Disraeli and more youthful than Lloyd George. The Czech overthrow of Soviet tyranny was called the 'Velvet Revolution'; this was just as momentous: the `Versace Revolution' had begun.
There can be no doubt that wine- tastings will attract drinkers along with tasters. After a 118-year history it is this knowledge that had dissuaded El Vino's wine bar from such evenings until six years ago. David Mitchell, now the chairman of the company and previously an MP, decid- ed it would be 'marvellous' to allow his friends and ex-colleagues a chance to taste the finest wines away from hoi polloi. Knowing only about wines served in Bernie Inns or the public houses of North Lon- don, I quickly realised that this put me in the latter bracket, and I had not prepared my palate for the finery on display at the Royal United Services Institute, Whitehall. Particularly enjoyable were the 'complex' reds on the final table, and all who had made it to that point had certainly been swallowing more than they had been spit- ting. Intoxicated by the incredible Barolo 1993, Pronutto, I politely asked the server for 'some more'. He looked perplexed, even a little faint, and the snigger from Ken Livingstone, swaying on my right, made me back off hurriedly, my glass empty.
The tasting was a subdued affair with lamentably little support from the govern- ment benches. Perhaps they all had work to do: But several ex-Tory MPs were still doing the rounds and were there to sniff, sip, sluice and spit some of the fine wines. During a conversation on the subject of sin- gle-sex schools with the ex-MP for Finch- ley, Hartley Booth (no relation, I checked) he lamented, 'Schools without girls make LAUREN BOOTH better men.' Are you sure?' I asked. 'A lot of them seem to become Tory MPs.' All credit to him: he smiled before he stomped off, but I was beginning to have an Enfiel- dian tide of regret as I stood sipping the wonderful Château Batailley on my own. I was saved, however, by David Blunkett's friendly smile. I grinned at him from my distant corner and even waved a hand in greeting. He merely turned away. Was it something I said?
The fantastic result for the anti-hunt lobby last week coincided with the depar- ture of a feline acquaintance of mine from the corridors of power, himself a natural hunter of some renown. I am referring, of course, to Humphrey the cat. Our paths crossed one afternoon in the Downing Street lobby. He looked a bit ragged. More- over he had the arrogance of a very senior civil servant — this cat wasn't called Humphrey for nothing. Indeed he gave me such a withering look of contempt that I shall never forget him. Nor will I forget the unpleasant odour that followed him about. I certainly wouldn't have Humphrey living with me.
As for the other sort of hunters, Ann Widdecombe's suggestion for their punish- ment was far too kind. I propose beating them where it really hurts — in the wallet. Snatch squads could be sent to kidnap their beloved Range Rovers. Special commando squadrons would then be instructed to seek and destroy stray Barbour jackets and build huge bonfires with them. The smoke from these would drift ominously across whole counties and serve as a warning to other serial opposers of the Bill.
To the Parliamentarian of the Year Awards at the Savoy, a glittering display of hardened Scotch drinkers and parliamen- tary wits. Never have I voluntarily been in a room with so many Tory hate figures. I felt like a female Ramsay MacDonald arriving at Lady Londonderry's salon for the first time. Thankfully, the large High- land Park Scotch whisky I was handed on arrival soothed my nerves. On my table, sitting opposite me was Nigel Lawson. Having turned down the dessert, I had a change of heart and even requested extra fresh cream on witnessing the living dan- gers of over-dieting and Thatcherism. Sharing a table with one ex-Conservative minister was not the end of my tribula- tions. Swallowing my left-of-centre pride like a piece of dry bread in the desert, I shook hands with the new improved Michael Portillo. Now that he has made clear his more-pink-than-blue credentials I needn't feel too guilty. Relief came in the form of our Iron Chancellor (known to us female fans as Mr Far-more-attractive-in- the-flesh Brown). Chatting to him was like a breath of Highland fresh air. Giving me one of his lopsided grins he commented, `Not so much the hunter as the hunted now, Lauren?' How true.
My reputation as a Valkyrie-like god- dess (encouraged by bored journalists with columns to fill) was at stake as I met that cold, steely-eyed Lothario, Alan Clark. To leave the Awards not having been asked out by him would (I was assured by several Spectator writers) be seen as 'a sure sign you're a woofer'. Determinedly, I walked over to him and, smiling as demurely as I dared, announced. 'It wouldn't be good form for either of us to leave here without having arranged an innocent lunch togeth- er.' Time may indeed have crumpled those aquiline features, but as he turned his full and vaguely amused attention on me, I sud- denly felt like a child that had foolishly poked a stick at a caged panther. He gave me a cool, brazen appraisal. 'My dear, I was going to ask you anyway,' he growled. Thank goodness for that.
As busy parliamentarians returned to their duties, Ken Livingstone was sitting alone at his table and heard to ask, 'Do I have body odour, or is it the smell of my politics that has driven my table away?' At the final table to remain, Robert Marshall- Andrews (winner of the New Member to Watch Award) was given a hero's welcome for his lampooning of New Labour in gov- ernment. Laughing happily, he filled his loving cup award with Scotch and passed it around the table from lip to lip. I had a tremor of conscience as it reached me and couldn't quite bring myself to share the merriment. I declined rather more loudly than I intended on the grounds that 'as a Christian socialist I do not sup with devils'. Writing for them, however, is another mat- ter altogether.
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