One day at the end of 1989 I got a call from someone saying they were from The Spectator. I said: “You’re a Tory rag, I don’t speak to Tory rags.”

He said: “No, no, this isn’t for an interview or a quote. We sent you an invite for our awards ceremony, did you get it?”

“Yes – and I threw it in the bin.”

“What if you thought you might get an award? Would you come?”

I still thought it was someone taking the mickey. He said: “No, this is The Spectator and, er, don’t tell anyone, but you have indeed won something.”

I decided I would go along – and discovered that I was Debater of the Year.

The awards ceremony was sponsored by a whisky firm, so they were shoving glasses of whisky in everyone’s hand.

I don’t drink whisky, and rarely any alcohol at all, really. No one ever believes this. Sure, in the merchant navy, I did have a few bevvies when we arrived on shore after a long voyage of six months or so, going out to celebrate with the lads, but that was it.

I never touch beer and I don’t have wine with meals, though Pauline does. The most I’ll ever have, if I’m at a social occasion and I feel I have to have something, is half a pint of shandy, then spin it out all evening.

So I don’t know what came over me that day. I was seated next to this young woman from The Spectator – Petrofino, Peregrino, something like that. I never did get her name right at the time but I gather now it was Petronella, Woodrow Wyatt’s daughter. She was the one encouraging me to have another.

I managed to make an acceptance speech, saying I was not your usual Oxford rapier, I was more of an axeman. But of course I was very honoured. I did get the words out, in roughly the right order, but by then the whisky was taking effect and I was beginning to stagger.

It so happened I had to go to a meeting of the shadow cabinet, being chaired by Neil Kinnock, at which we were going to be addressed by the cabinet permanent secretary. The thinking was we should know the inner workings of the cabinet, in case we ever got elected. Despite being groggy, I was determined to attend.

When I arrived at the House, they could all see my condition and immediately sat me down. Joan Hammell and Sue Nye, in Kinnock’s office, poured coffee down my throat by the gallon, trying to sober me up. They were also trying to persuade me not to go into the meeting. But I was determined. Eventually I stumbled in after it had been going on for an hour.

“I know I’m pissed,” I said, “but I just want to ask one question . . . Why do I want some permanent cabinet secretary telling me things? I’ll find out soon enough when we’re in government.” Then I was escorted out.

Some years later, in a bid to improve the relationship between me and Gordon, Geoffrey Robinson, the wealthy Labour MP for Coventry, who was one of our front-bench spokesmen and an ally of Gordon’s, invited us to his luxury apartment in Mayfair to watch an England v Scotland game. I had a £10 bet with Gordon that England would win.

When you’re not at all used to it, a drop of brandy can quickly go to your head. If you’re not careful. Which I wasn’t. Geoffrey’s hospitality flowed and flowed and I got pretty sloshed. Charlie Whelan, Gordon’s press secretary, had to help me into my car.

I remember thinking, through the haze: “Oh, God, this will get in the papers, someone will leak it, and I’ll be able to guess who did it.” But, surprisingly, there wasn’t a word.

I saw that as a good sign. It showed that, despite everything, we were all working together, not stabbing each other in the back or leaking nasty stories. And I got my £10 from Gordon. That was a triumph in itself.

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