Autobiography

An Unexpected MP: Confessions of a Political Gossip by Jerry Hayes

By Jerry Hayes

A few humans input politics simply because they need to make the realm a greater position. Then there are people with welldeserved inferiority complexes who wish prestige, strength and place. Few think me, yet I entered the home of Commons in simple terms by way of accident.' excessive advantage in excessive place of work? no longer an opportunity, says Jerry Hayes. No staid autobiography or dry political memoir, An unforeseen MP takes you on a raucous and salacious romp via Westminster, the media and public existence. during this no-holds-barred exposé, Jerry Hayes indicates precisely why humans have been so stunned whilst he turned an MP - from the obligation policeman who advised him to bugger off while he rolled up on his first day, to the Iron woman herself, who appeared with a steely eye on his pleased chutzpah. And, because the ideal antidote to the holier-than-thou, whiter-than-white methods of the present crop of politicos, the shameless - and shamelessly wonderful - Hayes makes an excellent journey advisor to the unusual state that's Parliament, taking gleeful swipes at left and correct alike. choked with tall stories of unspeakable debauchery on a tsunami of alcohol, An unforeseen MP is a thundering account of the offbeat lunacy of Westminster and Fleet road.

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Perhaps its very tranquillity allowed it to slip away — and its simplicity. I remember the heavy somnolent scent of limes in high summer, and the pungent privet bushes beneath them; the cowparsley peashooters and ivy ammunition. Once an enormous oak eggar caterpillar escaped from its jamjar into the dormitory, frightening the boy who believed that the sticky come on his fingers was his brain leaking. The strange masters: Captain Eriks, the Dutchman with his creaky metal leg; Mr. Howard, an elegant grey Edwardian with a rose in his buttonhole.

Look at the sea gobbling at the boats at their moorings - no fishermen out today. The ghost of Aggie-One-Tooth is running in the breakers, her domesday bell ringing in the storm. The wrecks are shifting in their sandy graves. Mrs. Ciller's 'third' fell into the vat of molten amber in the far kutch, and just stood there like an oiled bird, weeping. She'd cut up her dressing gown, the splendid one from the London store, the only one she'd ever had, to clothe him. Oh wind please chase yourself away.

That summer, when the wheat had grown waist high, we carved a secret path from the violet grove into the centre of the field, and lay there chewing the unformed seeds, rubbing ourselves all over each other's bronzed and salty bodies, such was our happy garden state. During the long Saturday afternoons we formed a plan to dig to the other side of the world, far away from the bullying sports masters and the bells that marked out our lessons. At least we would carve out a cavern. So when no-one was looking we smuggled the small trowel (the one I used for my prizewinning garden that lay between the kitchens and the chapel) into the fields and slowly dug down into the sandy subsoil.

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