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.
Thursday 28th July
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.
Saturday 30th July
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.
AUGUST
Monday 1st August
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.’
Tuesday 2nd August
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.
Wednesday 3rd August
‘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.
Thursday 4th August
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.
Friday 5th August
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.’<
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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.
Saturday 6th August
‘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.
A very strange day.
Monday 8th August
So why exactly was I crying post-ravish on Saturday? Well, the most prosaic reason was that Katie was agonisingly rough with her handiwork. I don’t mean to be crude here, but a penis is not a gearstick. It only really likes to move in two directions. And you certainly don’t find reverse by pushing it down violently and shoving it into the top left corner of its axis.
I suppose it’s the age-old conundrum for a man. Do you let a woman continue to chafe you raw in the hope that the orgasm might validate the purgatory? Does the end justify the means? Or do you quietly and sensitively show her how to do it gently? Women are always taking the mickey out of us for requiring a map to find their clitoris. (Men are fine with maps, we just don’t like to ask directions.) I think it’s time that we struck back.
But of course, I was also crying because I’d realised that I’d lost Lucy for good. I didn’t really want to sleep with Katie. She was just Rick with longer hair, fit from afar, far from fit, a substitute for all that I’d been through with Lucy. I wouldn’t want Lucy back in a million years, but I’ve got to the stage now when I can remember the reasons why I liked her in the first place. I suppose this is the final stage in getting over someone.
All of which are very generous thoughts, but I can’t help wondering whether I really meant all those nice things I said about Rick and Lucy at the wedding. A large part of me wanted to stand up and give vent to the vilest, most cynical speech ever witnessed at a festival:
‘Ladies and gentlemen, we are gathered here today because the bride slept with the groom as a way of making the best man jealous. We are here to celebrate the happy fact that the bride is pregnant and the father of the bride is so bottom-clenchingly middle class that he forced her to marry her one-night stand. Ladies and Gentlemen, I give you the happy couple (and I give them half a year).’
But that would have caused quite a scene in rural Wiltshire, and Archie Poett and I would no longer be on first-name terms.
Friday 12th August
Now that my life is back on a boringly neutral plateau again — no annoying boss, no pestering ex-girlfriend, no immediate love interest, no testicular cancer, no fights with friends, no political ambitions, no real purpose — I suppose I should set about working out what to do with myself for the next forty-five years until retirement. This is the strange thing about life after university. It’s feels like you’ve just fallen off a conveyor belt of nonstop academic landmarks, and are launched in one fell swoop into the rest of your life. It’s suddenly up to you, and not your tutors or your parents.
But I’ve really got no idea at all what to do next. The things I enjoy and do well — socialising, drinking, writing amusing emails — are not really transferable economic skills. I think the sad truth is that to make money you have to work with money. And money per se is indescribably boring. Worse still, it’s impossible to know which job will suit you until you try it out. And as soon as you try it out you’re stuck with contracts and inexplicable gaps in your CV. It’s like jumping straight from a first date into marriage.
What do you do with a BA (Hons) in Latin, anyway? Classical Civilisation is very interesting, but it doesn’t really lead you down a career path in the same way as studying Economics, or Law, or Medicine. We have no real skills beyond copying other people’s essays. You can do anything or nothing with an arts degree. It opens every door and no door.
I’ve even thought about going back to university and learning some more useless facts. It was so much simpler there. You could have breakfast in the afternoon and dance midweek to Abba in sweaty student clubs. You could impetuou
sly decide that you had had enough of working at 3pm and leave the library for a game of tennis. One of the hardest decisions you had to face on an average day was whether to have chicken or minestrone Cup-a-Soup.
If I went back and did a Master’s I could be a legend again. I would stand out from the rest of the sad grads. I could have my pick of the nubile teenagers. I could wake up every morning feeling a little fresher.
But then I’m far too late for this academic year. And I’ve got absolutely no idea what to study. And what nubile nineteen-year-old wants to go out with a balding former banker when she could have a hot young stud at the peak of his sexual prime?
Perhaps I need an older woman. Where is Mrs Iona in these times of trial?
Sunday 14th August
I finally arranged to see Jean again in the evening.
I was nervous. I was aware that I was entering dangerous territory with a second date. You can’t have a second date with someone and not kiss them at the end. It’s against the rules.
But my problem is that I am incredibly bad at kissing someone for the first time. I hate rejection. I hate throwing the face in. I don’t like doing something unless there is a statistically high chance of success. There must be something of the banker still in me.
And I think the worst bit is that split second just as you’re leaning in. It seems to last a lifetime, and there’s that agonising fear that she might turn her head away at the last minute, leaving you hanging like a mutant teenager with your tongue lolling out.
All these thoughts are still running through my head as I’m walking Jean back to the tube at the end of the evening. I look at her sideways. She’s attractive. She’s a very nice girl. But I can already see the future — we’d go out for three months, become fond of each other and then I’d feel trapped and try to extricate myself without hurting her. She’s got lots of good qualities, but none of them are enduring. And what’s the point of starting when you can already see an inevitable end?
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