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Tuesday Diary: I Was Once a 'Leader of the Future'

Jerry Hayes has some fond memories of a trip to the USA in the 1980s.

By Jerry Hayes

27 Dec 2011, 12:40

*At Christmastime we all make the pilgrimage to wildest Aberdeenshire to stay with my ninety one year old mum who lives in a lovely old house between the Vale of Alford and the dangerous beauty of Aviemore. When I pop down to the pub to have a few drams with the lads, it takes me a few hours to get attuned to the very unusual dialect of Doric, which is the local language. Although this is a primarily an area which some might consider Protestant, they loathe Rangers with a vengeance as their loyalties tend to be far more Gael than Celt. But a trip to my mum's is also a trip down memory lane, as she had put together in her hallway, rather embarrassingly, a load of photos of me going back to my childhood, some of which stir long forgotten memories. How strange it is to stare at myself Bill Cash, Edward Leigh, Steve Norris and Roger Gale being introduced to President Reagan when he visited London in the early eighties. About twelve of us were invited to meet him at the incredibly grand residence in Regent’s Park. Why? Because some dim wit at the State Department had come to the conclusion that we were the leaders of the future. If ever there is a lesson in the sheer hopelessness of US intelligence gathering that photo sums it up.

 

* Yet the Reagan visit did lead to life changing experience months later. A man from the embassy made me an offer which would make me a lifelong Americophile. Would I like to go anywhere in the States that I wanted for six weeks all expenses paid? Of course I did and planned a wonderful trip despite the Whips, who thought that it might be difficult as we only had a tiny majority of 144. Anyhow, we compromised. I told them to fuck off and only went for a month. I remember arriving exhausted in San Francisco to be greeted by a charming young woman at my downtown hotel. “Hi, would you like a fuck now or later?” she politely enquired. “Actually,” terrified of some terrible tabloid sting or being honey trapped into joining a CIA assassination squad which would programme me to strangle Ed Balls many years later, I replied that I was a little bit tired but thanked her nonetheless, thinking how generous American hospitality was .The young lady was not amused and stormed off muttering something about having children to feed. Dear old Uncle Sam had accidentally put me up in a brothel.

 

* Yet, there was one downside to an otherwise amazing experience; a disturbing latent racism in some parts of the south. But not where you might expect it. In Birmingham Alabama I was driven by the first black commissioner whose daughter had been burned to death in the firebombing of a chapel in the 1960s. Mercifully, due to the hard work of communities tensions had eased considerably. Unlike my trip to Florida with the Episcopalian Church and the Daughters of the Revolution. This time my volunteer driver was a delightful fellow called Felix who was a NASA rocket scientist. He was driving me to the church were I was to be the guest of honour, enjoy a buffet and make a little speech. When Felix and I entered the room there was an audible gasp of horror. You see, Felix was black. An elderly Daughter of the Revolution who was no stranger to cosmetic surgery and a triumph of the mortician’s art, pulled me to one side. “I am afraid that we have a problem here. We do not think it appropriate that your driver eat with us. Of course, we can make him up a tray in another room.” I patiently explained that I couldn’t see the problem. There were no place settings so there shouldn’t be any difficulties. I even tried a little compromise by suggesting that I would be delighted to break bread with them provided Felix was treated equally. If not, I would be forced to leave. Not a bit of it. So Felix and I fled the Episcopalian Church which had forgotten its Christian values, dumped the car and got thoroughly pissed in a piano bar where I sang rather badly.

 

* The two other notable experiences were three days on a farm in Minnesota with a family of Christian fundamentalists and St. Patrick’s Day in Boston. The former a nightmare, the latter a delight. I first knew that the fundamentalist farmers were going to be a problem when I noticed a “Pat Robertson for President” sticker on the fridge. They were lovely people, yet there is only so much I can take of being sat in front of fire and brimstone creationist preachers who thought Darwin was the Anti Christ. It was the lack of alcohol and “I ‘aint descended from no monkey” posters that did it for me. But Billy Bulger’s St Patrick’s Day’s Bash was an out of body experience. Billy, more Irish than the Irish was the President of the Massachusetts Senate which he ruled with Stalinist control, yet delightful charm. The beer was green, the food was green and even the dogs were painted green. Billy’s way was to invite notable politicians and take the piss out of them. So I saw vice President Bush being trashed, Joe Kennedy bite the dust and Governor Mike Dukakis reduced to a quivering wreck. Then the dreaded words, “for the first time at this Bash we have a Limey Member of Parliaaaament, who will say a few words.” Satan had entered the room and those holding the Noraid buckets gave me less than friendly glances. Luckily I was prepared. As quick as a flash, I donned a leprechaun hat and a badge emblazoned with “Irish is beautiful” badge and ripped the piss out of Bulger and told a load of Thatcher jokes. It was a high risk strategy. Yet it worked. For many years I was invited back to Billy’s Bash and we became firm friends.