Hugh Grant, self-confessed grump and Fourth Estate muzzler, was at a drinks party I went to the other day in his old stomping ground of Notting Hill. It happened to be the day before he went to Makerfield to lend Andy Burnham his support. Grant was doing his occasional ‘man of the people’ act (Latymer Upper; New College, Oxford), having attached himself barnacle-like to the next PM in the apparent belief that Burnham will one day tame the wicked Murdoch/Rothermere press. How naive is that?
Anyway, I went up to him and said: ‘Oh, you turned up in my husband’s old constituency as well, and it was the absolute kiss of death.’ He looked mildly amused. ‘You lost then?’ ‘No, we won it outright. So, thank you.’ I told him the constituency – East Devon – and could see him trying to clear the fog, so I thrust out my hand. ‘Sasha Swire.’ Grant, a lover of F1 and fast cars – you know what women say about men like that – jammed his foot on the accelerator, catapulting from stationary to take-off in one violent, neck-snapping surge. One moment he was idling, the next he was all flame and thrust. I was left standing there, soot-faced, eyebrows gone. I’ve never seen anyone take off that fast. ‘I came to your fucking constituency to get rid of your absolute TWAT of a husband!’ he thundered, ‘twat’ apparently being his preferred synonym for Conservative. ‘But you don’t even know my husband. How do you know he’s a twat?’ (As it happens, my husband, Hugo, wasn’t even East Devon’s candidate at the 2019 general election – he had already retired – but I forgot to mention that.) ‘Just FUCK OFF. FUCK OFF, you vile, horrible woman.’
