Fast Fiction: Whip Hand
Richard Mallinson tells a tale of the games politicians play – and you can guess what those games involve.
'Go and sort the silly bugger out,' the chief whip said, so I went along the corridors in search of Herb Grattan, MP for a dump in the Midlands.
Finding him in one of the bars I said, 'Is it true you're bedding a tart?'
He was a big man with a wide face, tiny eyes and thin brown hair.
'She isn't a tart, she's nowt like a tart,' he said loudly and heads turned.
'Keep your bloody voice down,' I muttered, after which he quietly but still truculently asked, 'What business is it of yours?' - an absurd question, when you think about it.
'Look here, you silly bugger,' I said, 'we can't cope with another sex scandal, we've had more than our share already. So get your act together before any of this reaches the bloody tabloids.'
By the look of him I knew we had him onside again. I hurried back and smugly told the chief.
He hardly listened. He came so close to me that I could smell his whisky breath. His pock-marked face was all I could see.
'I want a word with you,' he said viciously. 'I've just had the News of the effing World on the line about a certain whip who's been snapped twice in the small hours leaving the effing flat of a woman who's not his effing lawful wedded . . . need I go on?'
No doubt he'd also used his favourite phrase when dealing with the press -'The only effing comment you'll get from me is eff off.'
It never worked.
*
After being shredded by the tabloids I lost my seat at the general election. Then I managed to get a job running a small charity ... in the Midlands.
As for Herb Grattan, he increased his majority and soon was appearing on programmes such as Any Questions? and Question Time, where he made quite an impact with his homilies on family values.
