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Friday, 3 April 2015

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Source:- Google.com.pk

Black Corset Biography

Wednesday 17 April 2013. Thirty-four years after I first met the Iron Lady, I was in the second row at St Paul’s for Margaret’s funeral. I don’t mind saying that I wept like a baby. I miss that woman more than I can say. So does Britain, though that’s another story. The place has gone to the dogs. There were others sobbing in the church that day who weren’t fit to sniff the hem of her nylon bloomers. To make matters worse, the whole thing was being broadcast by the BBC. There’s an organisation riddled with pinkos and Trots. Probably even the odd homosexual. Margaret would have hated that.

I’ve never been in any doubt about where I stand. Fifty years behind everyone else. I’m proud to be a member of the far right. Much better than being on the left. Not for nothing is “sinister” the Latin for left. Those Roman Johnnies knew a thing or two. Where was I? Oh yes, I was born to some person and my father was another person, and over the years I’ve married one or two other people and may have had some children, but none of them could hold a candle to Margaret. How I miss the days when she and I used to stay up late drinking whisky in her Downing Street study. “Come on, you silly pussy,” she would say. She always called me pussy. “What ideas do you have for me on how to crush the unions?”

Somehow or other, I found myself working for Saatchi & Saatchi. Great times. Maurice and Charles were complete bastards of course, but lovely, lovely men. Though not as lovely as Margaret. I had a chauffeur, of course, back then. We all did because we were all a bit drunk from lunchtimes onwards so when Margaret telephoned my secretary to ask if I would help her, I happily fell into the back of the Daimler. I will never forget my first meeting with Margaret. Never. If I close my eyes, I can still smell her stale lavender perfume. There I was, slumped in an armchair, smoking like a train and she fixed me with that beady eye of hers. I defy any red-blooded man to resist her gaze. “Make me an advert to stop those work-shy Commies getting back in to power.”
The years I spent with Margaret were the happiest of my life. The country wasn’t grateful for everything she did for it, of course, but I hope that in my own little way I let her know just how much she was appreciated by the people who really matter. She was man enough not to mind though. I can remember her barging into the lavatories at the Carlton Club, unzipping her tweed skirt and standing at the next urinal to me to relieve herself. “Never expect any gratitude, pussy,” she said. The floppy-haired eunuchs in her party did for her in the end, of course, and the country has never really recovered. I certainly haven’t.

In my career since as PR adviser to some of the world’s most brutal and authoritarian regimes, it had been my very good fortune to meet some very great leaders. General Pinochet may have killed hundreds of thousands of his own people, but he was always very civil to me. He also poured a mean gin and tonic before the sun was over the yard-arm. A chap can be forgiven a lot for that.

I was also delighted to offer my not inconsiderable services to FW de Klerk in his bid to become South African president. It’s often completely overlooked that the apartheid regime was run primarily for the benefit of the black. The thing is, your average black Johnny just doesn’t want to spend time with white people. FW understood this and ran the country so black Johnnies could go happily about their business. It’s a matter of record, of course, that Nelson Mandela narrowly won that election and look what’s happened to the country now. Not that FW or I ever expected any gratitude. But some recognition would have been welcome.

Is that the time? I’ve found I’ve run out of pages to talk about some of my other illustrious clients, such as the delightful Mrs Assad of Syria, the ousted Thai prime minister, whatever his name is, the Belarus dictator Lukashenko, Rupert Murdoch, Rebekah Brooks, the Sri Lankan and Bahrain governments. Splendid, upstanding people all of them. Though none can hold a candle to Margaret. Every day I miss that woman more. I recently received a small token from her estate. Her slightly worn, unwashed corset. As I sit here fingering it gently, my mind goes back to her. There will never be another like her.

Digested read, digested: Bell End.

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