Anorak News | King’s Ransom

King’s Ransom

by | 9th, December 2004

‘WANT to know why politicians sleep with secretaries and magazine publishers?

An expenses habit

If you do, the chances are high that you’ve not been watching the live televised debates broadcast from the House of Commons.

Can there ever have been a place of work that less inspires carnal thoughts, that less creates an urge to take a colleague up a dark corridor of power?

Much of this absence of workplace lust can be explained by the lack of women in the chamber.

And although the drive to parachute more females into top-level politics has been successful – 120 out of 659 MPs were women in the 1997 General Election – only the worst kind of bulldog fetishist would want to examine Clare Short’s hustings.

At least having charmless Clare, caravan-faced Margaret Beckett and Farrah Fawcett’s ugly sister Kate Hoey in the House keeps members’ thoughts on the job proper.

Although in quieter moments, members of a certain vintage must look at Glenda Jackson and wonder what might have been – and what on earth happened to her.

But, hold the pager, who is that ravishing creature over there? Why, it’s Oona King, MP for Bethnal Green and Bow since 1997, and she’s talking to the Guardian about her sex life.

Labour MP Oona – who, by being no more than attractive to the world at large, manages to look like a goddess in the company of her party peers – says that when working at a Labour MEP’s offices in 1991, she was made an offer.

If she’d like, this MEP would give her £10,000 from expenses to sleep with him.

Even with the meagre wages of a 24-year-old researcher at the Strasburg parliament, King was not tempted even for moment, and told him to “go to hell”.

The next day, he took her at her word and left for Brussels – that ten grand burning a hole in his twitching trouser pockets.

She complained to other politicians, who, as the story in the Times goes, upbraided this randy fool for his crass approach – and perhaps wondered how such a thing would play out on his expenses sheet.

(Ten grand for a five-minute “training course” is rich even for the great EU gravy train.)

And then she vowed never to say his name. She would never let on. His moment of madness would remain their little secret.

She also refused to speak to him, and for the past eight years has been true to her word.

But this is too ripe a tale to leave hanging, and papers are surely surveying the facts to get their man.

And by way of another clue, Oona says we should be on the look out for “an average mediocre white man who couldn’t do his job”.

Or a British politician, as he’s known…’

Posted: 9th, December 2004 | In: Uncategorized Comment | TrackBack | Permalink