As seen in the Times
‘You young people, I don’t even know where to start!’ My phone call to my daughter Isabel is entering its 40th minute. ‘You’re all too busy donning keffiyehs these days to do any BONKING.
‘When I was your age, it was snogging to Duran Duran all night, then onto the couch for an hour’s kip, then into the office for a full day’s work at the PR agency or Tatler or wherever I was then… the point is there was no whingeing, just working hard and having a bloody good time.’
I then ask about Tom, Izzy’s long-term boyfriend, but interrupt with another harangue: ‘The thing is, Tom is very sweet. But at your age, you should be seeing all kinds of men and then, if Tom is the right chap, when you’re both around 30, he’ll be there waiting for you. It was just like that with your father and me.’
Yes – dear, obliging old Simon. These days his partnership at a leading City law firm doesn’t require him to come down to London much, so he is mostly content to ‘hold the fort’ at our pile in Gloucestershire while I, on the advice of the Times lifestyle section, settle into my raunchy autumn years. Hunky toyboys, palm-readers and flamenco guitarists have come and gone, paid for with the proceeds from my freelance columns, along with a podcast I cohost. I cover everything from transgendereds in women’s sport to which private school you should send your children to.
‘Anyway,’ I say, ‘the point is: cram as much bloody sex in as you can while you’re young – not everyone gets a second wind like me. And do be careful when you’re actually “in the act”, poppet, I hear girls your age can only do it when some chap’s strangling you.’ Izzy shrieks something about me being disgusting and then hangs up.
I start composing an angry text accusing her of being a Gen Z algorithm-obsessed Polanski-loving teetotaller when there’s a knock at the door. Ooh, yes! It is the mystery gigolo who’s been making his way around the Cheltenham Ladies’ class of ’83. Hung like a horse and built like a bull, per the giggling reviews. Despite having never seen his face I am already ready to mount it as I open the door.
‘GoooooooDDD AFTERNOON!’. I feel something shrivel up inside me, for standing right there is none other than the leader of Reform UK, Nigel Farage, in mustard corduroys, tweed blazer and Dulwich school tie. He breezes past me as I blub out half a question. ‘B-b-b-but Nigel, b-b-’.
‘You know something?’ Nigel interjects. ‘I’ve always said there’s nothing wrong with getting on your bike. And making a few quid on the side!’ Then suddenly his voice darkens. His eyes flash with cold, pure rage. ‘Do you want me dead?’
‘What? No…’
‘Do you want me dead? It’s a very simple question.’
‘No.’
Ooh, yes! It’s the mystery gigolo who’s been making his way around the Cheltenham Ladies’ class of ’83
‘D’ya think security comes on the cheap!? Good. Well, I’m glad we could clear that up.’ Farage smiles as he wanders into my living room and begins rubbing his fingertips on the silver candelabra on the mantelpiece.
‘Georgian. Very nice. Very. Nice. Indeed,’ he mutters as he picks it up and stows it in his inner breast pocket.
‘Nigel!’ I cry.
‘Do. You. Want. Me. To. Be. Shot. Like. Charlie. Kirk?’ Nigel spits.
‘No, but…’
‘Very good!’
He’s on the move again, trotting upstairs to the children’s bedrooms which have remained unchanged since they left for university. The door to Izzy’s slams in my face as I try to follow him. ‘NIGEL!’ I shout, banging at it. I hear something break as I finally force open the door.
On the floor is Nigel, scrabbling for coins among the remains of Izzy’s childhood piggy bank. His head swivels and he meets my eyes with a toothy grin.
‘Ever thought about buying yourself some gold bullion? They aren’t printing this stuff you know. You could double your money!’
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