Donald MacInnes: Revenge was not so sweet with John Major's bad breath
In The Red
Your support helps us to tell the story
From reproductive rights to climate change to Big Tech, The Independent is on the ground when the story is developing. Whether it's investigating the financials of Elon Musk's pro-Trump PAC or producing our latest documentary, 'The A Word', which shines a light on the American women fighting for reproductive rights, we know how important it is to parse out the facts from the messaging.
At such a critical moment in US history, we need reporters on the ground. Your donation allows us to keep sending journalists to speak to both sides of the story.
The Independent is trusted by Americans across the entire political spectrum. And unlike many other quality news outlets, we choose not to lock Americans out of our reporting and analysis with paywalls. We believe quality journalism should be available to everyone, paid for by those who can afford it.
Your support makes all the difference.Last week I hinted at the economic dog's dinner that was my early working life. When last we spoke, I was under threat of nastiness from the (wholly beyond reproach) Next empire, having run up a store card balance that resembled the long number on my actual store card.
Thankfully, although the letters I received were getting increasingly angry, I may have been exaggerating last time when I suggested that I had been threatened by the Glaswegian equivalent of the Corleone family. Anyway, the actual Glaswegian equivalent of the Corleone family makes the actual Corleone family look like the Cosbys.
After I had been threatened with CCJs and various other forms of punitive darkness, I faced the music and managed to convince Next not to do me any harm, real or fiscal.
I arranged to pay them the balance over a few months, as long as I promised only to shop in Top Man from then on. That agreement still holds, incidentally. Alarms wail when I enter Next.
You would think this experience would have wised me up, but not so. I was then involved in a run-in with those happy-go-lucky, pay-us-anytime-you-like types at the Council Tax office (sky darkens… thunder cracks… horses whinny).
Displaying the kind of intellectual acumen that would shame a bucket of sand, I ignored a series of demands for me to pay up and soon found out why, in German, the words for "Council Tax" and "terrifying retribution" are practically the same. One day, I tried to use an ATM and discovered that Mrs Thatcher's Government had frozen my bank account. If you have never had this happen to you, I wouldn't recommend it. I was forced into asking my poor old Granny to delve into her savings and pay off my debt.
Thankfully, I was able to get some measure of revenge. Years later, I met Lady Thatcher's replacement, John Major, who granted me one of his last interviews as Prime Minister.
Although he was a genuinely nice lad, in payback for his party having caused me so much heartache, I included in my story the fact that his breath had smelled like a baboon's leotard (which it genuinely had).
My editor at the time was almost levitating with rage when he saw this nugget of information in my feature. But by then it was too late. The truth was out there.
A couple of days later Mr Major was booted out of No 10 by Tony Blair's high-kicking caravan of showbiz love.
In retrospect, if my revelation about Johnny's halitosis had anything to do with this change of power, I can only apologise.
d.macinnes@independent.co.uk
Join our commenting forum
Join thought-provoking conversations, follow other Independent readers and see their replies
Comments