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Tuesday Diary: Where Iain Dale Went Wrong - He Should Have Signed Her T***

Jerry Hayes recounts some railway experiences and tips Ann Widdecombe as a Strictly judge. He's still taking the tablets.

By Jerry Hayes

24 Jan 2012, 00:05

* It may well be that Iain Dale’s recent dramatic encounter may not make Michael Palin’s Great Railway Journeys of The world (what was it that he found so disgusting about professor Gary Slapper?), but it does bring back memories of some of my own strange experiences on the permanent way. Once, an enormous man of at least six foot seven, with few teeth, a shaved head, and that smell and pallor you have after a long stretch as a guest of Her Majesty, entered my carriage and glared. He was also carrying a dustbin bag, which is always a tell tale sign of someone who has been released earlier, that day. He sat beside me, smiled and said, “ ‘ere  you’re that Jerry Hayes aren’t you?” I nodded uncomfortably. Anyway, we had a chat and seemed a really nice guy, freely talking about his time inside. Foolishly, I asked him what he had done. “Well, nothing really mate. I was in this pub with my missus, went for a piss and this bloke started chatting her up. So I went home picked up my chainsaw, brought it back to the bar, found the guy and lopped his head off. Unfortunately, some other geezer got in the way and one of his arms got chopped off too. Oh, and I think I might have severed his spine.” Those in the carriage who had not yet passed out nor were violently chucking up into their handkerchiefs, alighted at the next stop.

 

* And then there was the time when I was minding my own business, trying to read my Evening Standard in peace, when a number of drunken, scantily clad, teenage girls were making a thorough nuisance of themselves. After about ten minutes I had almost come to the end of my tether. “What, I politely asked, would it take for you to keep quiet?”  “It’s ‘im  off the telly!” squealed one. “I’ll tell you what, if you sign our tits we’ll fuck off!”  she offered in a ladylike manner. Well, it was one of those offers I felt unable to refuse. So one by one, still squealing in merriment, they lifted their tops and I did my little best to oblige. And to their credit at the next stop, off they fucked. So, Iain old son, there is a lesson here. In future if you have a problem with a drunken woman on a train, just offer to sign their tits. What could possibly go wrong?

 

* I was not at all surprised to read in the Sundays that Parliament is sinking into the mud, expecting this to be a clever intro into some trouser dropping, bra pinging , knob quivering bit of scandal. Sadly not, it is reasonably true as the great Gothic pile in built on a raft of concrete in the middle of a marsh called Thorney Island. Legend has it that St Peter visited it and performed a miracle for fishermen there. This of course is utter bollocks, but there is a ring of truth to it. If you unlock a door at the bottom of the Commons car park you can still see the remains of the Roman shale beach. This wonderful building has always been beset with problems. Firstly the smell. In Victorian times the Thames was a vile open sewer which stank so badly that strips of lime were placed over the windows of the committee rooms and the library. It is one of the reasons that the summer recess became so long. And air conditioning was also problematic. The Great Ventilator, Dr. Reid had, a mad scheme where furnaces were built to expel the “vitiated air.”  One was built in the Victoria Tower the other in the Clock Tower incorrectly known as Big Ben. The trouble is he built the latter furnace next to the main gas pipe and nearly blew the Palace to smithereens. Dr. Reid was sent to prison. But there is a better story that so far the press have missed. Most of Whitehall is tidal with the Ministry of Defence sitting on a lock where water flows in and out. And Downing Street has the worst problem. Because of the mud on which it was built the foundations are wooden which raise and lower a couple of inches with each tide. So one day the government could get seriously stuck in the mire.

 

* But the saddest story is what is happening to those two wonderful 140 foot paintings in the Royal Gallery of Waterloo and Trafalgar (the death of Nelson) painted onto the walls by Sir Daniel Maclise. These are the most inspiring and grandiose works of art in the Palace and frequently used to annoy  French Presidents when they visit. I have been told by conservators that time is making these paintings blacker and blacker and that there is nothing that can be done to restore them. What a tragedy.

 

* On a happier note that fresh from playing the Widders Twankie in Panto at Dartford the wonderful Ann Widdecombe has set her sights on some very ambitious telly. She is making it known that she would love to take the place of Aleisha Keys in the next season of Strictly Come Dancing. Now that could be fun.