Twenty Something (19 page)

‘So you usually go to polo events, strip in the Queen's back garden and end up with your naked picture plastered over the internet, do you?'

Oh buggeroonies.
I went over to Arabella's computer to see her looking at an unmistakable picture of me being led off the field by two scowling security guards. ‘Hung like a horse' was the blog's caption. Fortunately, they'd pixelled out my sensitive
parts so you couldn't see that a combination of alcohol and fear meant that I was actually hung like a very cold hamster.

Arabella, however, thought it was marvellous.

‘It's simply marvellous,' she gushed.

‘Yah, what an absolute hoot,' trilled Isabella.

‘Yah,' hooted Arabella. ‘This is just the kind of fun, in-touch person we need in the New Conservatives.'

They're absolutely right. Jack Lancaster — the fun, in-touch person who spends his weekend getting naked at polo matches. I am the saviour of the Tory Party. I am the proud inheritor of the legacy of Disraeli, Churchill and Thatcher. I am an absolute wanker.

Only two days left until Parliament adjourns for the summer. There is a festival mood in the place — probably because the MPs are about to gallivant off to Tuscany for a couple of months and we don't have to look at their puggy little faces any more.

I had a very long, boozy and subsidised lunch — thanks, taxpayer — and then returned to my correspondence pile.

The first ‘letter' was written on loo paper and addressed to ‘Mr de Mountain'. Right, I thought, I'm going to enjoy this. I mean, anyone who writes on loo paper deserves everything they get. No ruddy Conservative templates for me this time. On official headed notepaper I typed:

Dear Mrs Fothergill,

Thank you for your communication of 22nd July addressed to Mr de Mountain. I assume this was intended for the Rt Hon Alexander de Montfort MP, Leader of the Conservative Party and of Her Majesty's Opposition.

Mr de Montfort is a very busy man and has better things to do than respond personally to your menopausal whingeing. I hope you don't mind me replying on his behalf.

It is a shame that you are having trouble with your pension, but I don't know what you expect Mr de Montfort to do about it. You have the misfortune to live in the north of England; Mr de Montfort has the honour to represent a southern constituency. Even if he were interested in the minutiae of your tedious life, parliamentary protocol decrees that MPs should not interfere in their colleagues' bailiwicks (you'll find ‘bailiwick' under ‘b' in a dictionary).

As you are no doubt unaware, Mr de Montfort has no real power, in any case. His role is to make weak jokes in Prime Minister's Questions, and then wait until the Government does something stupid. Real power in this country resides with the media and the Civil Service. I'm afraid that the little people like you don't really get a look in.

So I thank you for taking the trouble to write to us, and I thank you not to trouble us again. In the future, perhaps it would be financially wiser to save the postage and invest in some better-quality loo paper instead. It would be a pity to waste any more rainforests with your literary faeces.

Yours sincerely,
Rt. Hon Alexander de Montfort
p.p. Jack Lancaster
PS I'm sorry to hear about your cat.

Feel rather bad about that letter now. I don't think I should have sent it.

I am, however, still a huge hit with Arabella, etc. over my
polo exploits. They have asked if I'd like to stay on over the summer. There's even talk of them giving me a proper position and a respectable salary. Will have to think about it.

Just had a call from the political editor of the
Sunday Times
. Mrs Fothergill rang them up. I'm going to be on the front page tomorrow.

I am for the high jump.

John Humphrys: ‘And now, we've got Jack Lancaster in the studio. In case you've been on Mars for the last two days, Mr Lancaster is the man responsible for a twenty per cent slide in the approval ratings of his boss — perhaps I should say former boss — the Conservative leader, Alexander de Montfort MP. His extraordinarily insulting letter, written on headed notepaper from the Leader of the Opposition, was given by its recipient, an elderly lady called Mrs Fothergill, to a Sunday newspaper, which published it in full.'

I'm sweating like a paedophile in a playground. Six million people are listening to this. The only thought going through my head is
Six million people are listening to this. Don't swear, Jack — don't bloody, pissing swear.

He continues: ‘Mr Lancaster, your letter describes Mrs Fothergill as ‘whingeingly menopausal'. What on earth did she do to justify that kind of abuse?'

‘Nothing, John, nothing at all. I would like to make excuses — I was tired, I'd had too much to drink at lunchtime, etc., etc. — but the truth is that what I wrote was inexcusable. I cannot apologise enough for the hurt that I've caused Mrs Fothergill and the Conservative Party.'

This is going OK, isn't it? I am trying to imagine Humphrys taking a dump, which is making me less nervous.

‘Inexcusable? It certainly is. Mrs Fothergill is the widow of a decorated war hero and you call her contribution to the democratic process ‘literary faeces'. I put it to you that your letter is patronising, smug, haughty and intolerably rude.
Doesn't it embody everything which has made the Conservative Party so unelectable for the last decade?'

‘I think it probably does. That's why I voted Rock & Roll Loony at the last election.'

‘You're not even a Conservative?'

‘No.'

‘So why did Mr de Montfort give you a job?'

‘I'm not sure. Although I imagine he's probably asking himself the same question right now.'

‘I don't doubt it. Right, the time now is 8.27. I think we've got Mrs Fothergill on the line. Mrs Fothergill, what would you like to say to Jack Lancaster?'

‘Mr Lancaster, you're a horrible piece of work. It's people like you who have brought this great country to its knees.'

‘And what do you say to that, Mr Lancaster?'

‘I think I agree entirely, John.'

It's been something of a nightmare, to tell the truth. I didn't sleep for sixty hours. The flat was besieged by reporters and photographers. I've appeared on the front page of almost every newspaper (except
The Sun
, which splashed with a soap star's breast enlargement — perhaps they're being loyal to their former Letter of the Day writer).

At lunchtime de Montfort rang personally to vent his anger, just as Flatmate Fred was pouring dirty dishwater on the reporters outside.

‘Lancaster, you were good on
Today
, but you're a first-class fool. Do yourself a favour and piss off out of all of our lives.'

‘Thank you, sir. Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.'

I don't think I'm ever going to be Conservative Prime Minister. And, worst of all, I've got no one to blame except myself.

‘You've got no one to blame except yourself.'

‘I know, Daddy, I know. I am a complete fool.'

‘Jack, for the first time in my life, I'm utterly ashamed of you. I don't mourn the damage you've done to the Conservative Party, but I can't believe you've sabotaged your reputation in this way. You've made your mother and me look extremely foolish. We're both utterly ashamed of you.'

Ouch, that really hurt. There is something in the raw, moral goodness of the man that prevents him from being unduly unpleasant to anyone.

But, bizarrely, my dad's reaction has been relatively atypical. Maybe it's a generational thing. Most of my friends now think I'm a hero. People I haven't seen for years have tracked me down. Jean has been texting furiously trying to arrange a second date with the celebrity of the hour.

Leila sent me an email: ‘Now I can understand why you left the bank, you irresponsible reprobate! Yesterday polo, today the Conservative Party, tomorrow the world. Let's meet up soon. Keep on entertaining me in the meantime!'

One newspaper even ran a leader praising my ‘refreshing honesty in the hypocritical world of politics It was the letter which we have all wanted to write — perhaps all should have written — but have never had the courage to put our fingers to keyboard.'

They're wrong, of course, and the rest of the press tore me to shreds. It was a bloody stupid letter to write. Mrs Fothergill was an innocent, defenceless victim. But my forced display of public self-flagellation was equally unedifying.

Now that I've emerged from the other side of the whirlwind, I can see the episode for what it really was: a pointless and self-serving merry-go-round for a media and political circus which picked me up and spat me out with the rest of their five-minute wonders.

Thank god, I've disappeared from the papers altogether. The Prime Minister has been implicated in some scandal or other and de Montfort's approval ratings have soared back up. The millions of breakfast-table voyeurs now have someone else to disparage over the marmalade. The unknown twenty-five-year-old has been replaced and there are only 11,579 Google hits for ‘Jack Lancaster letter' to remind me of the sordid episode for ever.

Two phone calls. First, Arabella from de Montfort's office:

‘Oh Jack, you silly billy. You were fabulous on the
Today
programme. Of course, it was jolly rotten of you to write that kind of tosh in the first place, but I just thought you should know that there are no hard feelings.'

I think the dreadful old bag fancies me.

Second, Rick:

‘Mate, have you written your speech for tomorrow yet?'

‘Tomorrow? What's happening tomorrow?'

‘Ha ha, very funny. I'm getting married, innit.'

Oh shit.

‘Yeah, of course, mate. Wrote it ages ago.'

‘Good, nothing too embarrassing in it, I hope. You're not going to bring up the sheep story again, are you?'

Hmmm, I will now.

‘And look, it's the celebrity best man, saviour of the Conservative Party.'

‘Hello, Mr Poett. How are you?'

‘Very well, Jack, thank you. And thank you for your delightful apology note after our late-night conversation back in March. Such a shame that you didn't extend your rigorously polite epistolary style to your professional life.'

‘Hmm, point taken, Mr Poett.'

‘And Jack?'

‘Yes, Mr Poett.'

‘You dated my daughter for three years. Today you're the best man at her wedding. Perhaps you could stop calling me Mr Poett like a guilty schoolboy.'

‘Yes, er, Archibald. Certainly.'

‘Archie, Jack, Archie. Come along. Let's get to the church. It's a beautiful day for a father to be giving away his daughter.'

It was indeed a beautiful day. The sun shone as friends and families streamed into the picturesque Wiltshire church.

‘Bride or groom?' asked an usher whom I'd never met at the church entrance.

‘Well, I used to shag the pregnant bride, but I've known the groom since we used to soil our nappies together, so, on reflection, I'll probably go and sit at the front in the best man's seat.'

A bit harsh, but I was fractious and nervous.

But from then on the service was perfect. Lucy looked more beautiful than ever in a dress that did its best to disguise her bump. Jasper played the organ. Rick's twin sister Katie was one of the bridesmaids, I didn't lose the rings and Rick managed to say ‘I do' and not ‘izzit'.

Later we trooped back to a marquee in the field adjacent to the Poetts' house. And, after I'd judged that the guests had drunk sufficient quantities of expensive poison, I rose to my feet:

Ladies and gentlemen, as some of you might be aware, I have recently acquired something of a reputation as a
letter writer. I hope you will forgive me if I give this speech in a medium in which I feel at home:

Wiltshire     
6th August 2005

Dear Rick,

Our friendship has always been a competitive one. When you were two years old you deliberately peed on my trousers at nursery school. I hit you and forgave you. When you were eight, I spotted you cheating off me during a French test, so I wrote out the wrong answers on purpose before changing them at the last minute. You hit me and forgave me. When you took my place in the under-13 rugby team, I threw your gum shield into the urinals. I haven't told you about this until now, but I hope you can forgive me without hitting me [
pause for polite laughter
].

This rivalry has never really died down. Recently you pointed out that I was beginning to lose my hair. Well, if I was as ginger as you, I'd want to lose mine, too [
pause for sustained laughter
].

But now that you are marrying my first real girlfriend, I graciously concede defeat [
pause for uproarious laughter
]. Lucy is very lovely and very beautiful and a million miles out of your league. Treasure her well or half of Britain will be tapping you on the shoulder to ask to swap places.

You are more than a best friend to me, Rick [
pause to achieve desired catch in voice
]. You are my brother. I wish you and the lovely Mrs Fielding all the happiness in the world.

Jack

PS [
Pause, grin and wink
] I know I just said that you were a
brother to me, but your sister Katie does look absolutely ravishable as a bridesmaid.

I sat down to thunderous applause as Katie's face turned the same colour as her hair.

Three more speeches, two bottles of champagne, six regrettable karaoke performances, one honeymoon departure and eight hours of dancing later, I was lying post-ravish beside the ravishable bridesmaid Katie in Lucy's childhood bed, sobbing quietly into a pillow and clutching the teddy bear I'd given Lucy for our first anniversary to my heaving chest.