It was normally Friday evening when he would ring. There was never a “hello, how are you?” or any pleasantry like that. He just dived straight in. “What you up to for Sunday?” he would ask, meaning he had a story for me. Normally the call would come from his car phone on the A1 while he was driving to his Hull constituency. He tended to travel alone, so business could be transacted in total secrecy.
Once – it must have been 1994, after John Smith had died and Tony Blair had become leader – I remember he suddenly broke off and roared some expletives mid-conversation which made me almost drop the phone. “What the hell was that about, I asked?” “Ohhh … Just some fucking moderniser overtaking on the inside lane,” he replied. “Bloody Mendelson [he would always deliberately mispronounce the name Mandelson, sometimes calling him Meddlesome] or someone.”
