Diary – 28 October 2005

David Cameron had me in his arms. His breath was warm on my face. Oh, be still my beating heart! It all lasted less than an hour, but I shall never forget. Yes, the probable future Tory leader and I enjoyed our own brief encounter — on the dance floor. I first met Mr Cameron when he was 25 or so and working for Norman Lamont, who was then Chancellor of the Exchequer. Mr Lamont, who had been on holiday with my family, had heard me sing. Rashly, he asked me to perform at his 50th birthday party at No. 11. Being a Eurosceptic, he was particularly keen on the German song ‘Lilli Marlene’. Poor David was put in charge of the arrangements. We sat next to each other at a dinner beforehand given by Carla Powell. I can assure the public there were no drugs taken except alcohol and cigarettes, mostly smoked by me. I was a trifle clattered when I arrived in Downing Street. It is no mean thing to have to get up scantily clothed in front of such people as Nicholas Soames and young Winston Churchill, and perform. Still, they stamped their feet — perhaps in disapproval. After it was over Mr Cameron asked me to dance. Though Mr Cameron was tall, good-looking and had all the necessary limbs, I was chary of this. I had yet to meet a young man who could dance. Most men in their twenties who look good in a stationary vertical position, upon starting to move to music resemble a puppet manipulated by a bulldozer. Mr Cameron was biblical in his revelation. He touched the floor with the grace of Astaire and the manliness of Gene Kelly. This week I even felt a sense of loss when I had dinner with Rosemary Lamont.