The turf: Paintball by number

The first I heard of the recent death of Norman St John Stevas was from a questioner after I had delivered a lecture on Margaret Thatcher aboard a liner off the Chilean coast. What came immediately to mind was the story of Mrs T. dispatching one of their fellow Cabinet ministers to tell Norman that he really must stop his dreadful name-dropping. The emissary, I believe it was Chris Patten, duly delivered the message. Lord St John, as he was to become, theatrically clutched his brow and said, ‘Oh, my dear, you’re absolutely right. That’s just what the Queen Mother was telling me last night.’

The foppish Norman never was going to last too long in the Cabinet of the Leaderene, as he called her, not after the day he begged leave to depart early from an afternoon Cabinet committee session to get dressed for a Royal Academy dinner. ‘But Norman,’ she countered, ‘I’m going to the same event and I’m not leaving yet.’