The secret diary of G. Brown
Read Gordon Brown's intimate thoughts following his appearance before Leveson
11th JUNE 2012.
Weather: Sunny/Hot/Dry. Tea: Sausages
An interesting day today for many, urm, reasons. In addition to my busy duties in the House I at last gave evidence at Leveson. This is the name of an inquiry into the immoral iniquities of the Tories and their lick-spittle friends in the media. Especially the devil-incarnate, Murdoch.
I have never met Murdoch but he stands for all those things so wrong with the modern world; underhand dealing, negative stories with no truth, an overwhelming belief in his own importance and talent. The ability to bring people to their knees if they disagree with him. Well I’ll have no truck with that sort of behaviour and that’s what I told them at the inquiry.
I remember when I played defensive midfield for Raith Rovers, that season we were in the Bundesliga - the 74-75 season if I remember rightly. We were playing Borussia Wednesday and I scored a hat-trick in the last ten minutes. For weeks and weeks after I was feted! – small children were coming up to me in the streets and asking me for my autograph.
Well that’s how it felt to be back in the media spotlight today. Everyone held on my every word. There were tears in the eyes of the journalists. They couldn’t help themselves.
Many of them are very good people. Not like this Damian McBride whoever he may be; I’ve never met him but he sounds like a very dodgy person and, had I the chance to meet him, I wouldn’t shake his hand, of that I’m sure.
I told Leveson that yes I had met Charles Whelan; when he wasn’t fishing for Salmon on the Tweed that is. Whelan is a genial sort with enormous amount of time for the common man. I’ve heard it said that sometimes he even gives his ghillie the dregs from his thermos if the wind’s blowing a bit by the river. He’s that sort of chap. Sensitive.
Anyway he used to pop into No.10 to borrow a book every now and then and we’d politely pass the time of day. Other than that I don’t suppose we’ve exchanged anymore that a few words in all the time I’ve known him.
I remember when we used to have Prime Minister’s questions on Sunday mornings before the Tories scrapped that fine tradition; I would be crucifying Thatcher with finely prepared debating points whilst she would just drone on about Tractor Output. That’s the thing about being PM. You’ve got to be nimble on your feet, play the point not the man, and expose them from the shining beacon of truth.
Anyway, I must away. There’s a three-line whip tonight and you know me diary, I never miss a vote.
Shame about journalism nowadays though. They make so much up. I had high hopes for that Hari chap; you know the one. Mata’s grandson. I wonder whatever happened to him?
Adrian Moss is a screenwriter and a chapter-contributor to "Prime Minister Boris and Other Things Which Never Happened..."
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