By Jerry Hayes
A few humans input politics simply because they need to make the area a greater position. Then there are people with welldeserved inferiority complexes who wish prestige, energy and place. Few think me, yet I entered the home of Commons only via accident.' excessive advantage in excessive workplace? no longer an opportunity, says Jerry Hayes. No staid autobiography or dry political memoir, An unforeseen MP takes you on a raucous and salacious romp via Westminster, the media and public existence. during this no-holds-barred exposé, Jerry Hayes exhibits precisely why humans have been so stunned whilst he grew to become an MP - from the obligation policeman who instructed him to bugger off whilst he rolled up on his first day, to the Iron woman herself, who appeared with a steely eye on his joyful chutzpah. And, because the ideal antidote to the holier-than-thou, whiter-than-white methods of the present crop of politicos, the shameless - and shamelessly pleasing - Hayes makes an excellent journey consultant to the unusual kingdom that's Parliament, taking gleeful swipes at left and correct alike. choked with tall stories of unspeakable debauchery on a tsunami of alcohol, An unforeseen MP is a thundering account of the offbeat lunacy of Westminster and Fleet highway.
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Additional resources for An Unexpected MP: Confessions of a Political Gossip
Apart from the fact we had our pre-match meals there, it was a handy place to go after training for a sandwich or bar snack and had the added attractions of snooker and darts. One particular lunchtime I saw George Miller – he was the pencil-slim left-footed dynamo from Dunfermline – sat in a corner scribbling away on scraps of paper. I sidled over with my sandwich and sat down. ’ I inquired nosily. ’ I was a bit of a gambler myself in those days, but I could not understand why he had so many bits of paper.
We had no problem finding Coven, but where on earth was this place called Brood? We finally gave up and went in a pub called the Ball, at Coven, for a drink. It was a really gloomy pub but I must say the beer was second to none. I asked the landlady the whereabouts of the Oakley Country Club and it gradually dawned on me that the signs I had seen which read ‘Brewood’ were the signs I should have been following. To this day I have never been able to fathom why the people of Wolverhampton pronounce Brewood as ‘Brood’!
A new signing asked me to accompany him to town and show him where the building societies were. ‘Come on, we’ll go in this one,’ he said when we reached the town centre. ’ When the cashier asked him how much he would like to open the account with, he answered ‘£6,500’ and promptly opened the briefcase he had with him before pouring the amount in notes onto the counter. I do not know who was more amazed, me or the cashier. £6,500 in 1965 could buy you three nice houses. Sitting in the office on Boxing Day 1964, waiting for the forms to be typed up, I was puzzled.