I’ve only met one Prime Minister.

Some years ago, just after the incorporation of Further Education colleges (making them independent of Local Authority control) I was invited as Chairman of Selby College Governors along with the Principal and all other such post-holders nationally to an inaugural evening conference.

High security was blindingly obvious and with good cause, for outside the venue were a jeering rabble of Trotskyist/SWP/ICP protesters, held back by a cordon of police.

When we got inside it was explained to us that we were to expect a VIP speaker, which was what the racket had been about.

After the meal and a few short speeches the MC announced the arrival of the “guest”.  The lights dimmed and a spot-light fell on a side door.  The national anthem started.  The doors opened and following a couple of bodyguards – bugger me, if it wasn’t Maggie Thatcher.

Many clapped and some hissed, but she marched on undeterred down the side of the hall in that characteristic walk of hers – here’s my tits, my arse’s behind.

But…

…just a minute!  Weren’t those tits a bit big?  Wasn’t that arse even bigger?  Wasn’t the walk a bit caricatured?

Then the penny dropped.  It was one of those Spitting Image satirists nobbed up to look like her.

A laugh started which grew and rose like a wave as we slowly got the joke.  The entire lunatic left of London had mobilised to jeer a bloke in a frock.

The Prime Minister I met was Tony Blair.