A NEW book is claiming Margaret Thatcher had not one but two affairs. And by an amazing coincidence Jilly Cooper was working on a novel about this very subject. Here are some extracts.
Chapter 1
It was another boring Downing Street reception in 1982. ‘If Monsieur Delors drones on about closer European integration for much longer I shall ram the Treaty of Rome up his bottom,’ sighed Mrs Thatcher to herself.
Her annoyance was interrupted by a voice from behind her. ‘Salmon and cucumber canapé?’
It was none other than Major Hugo Dashcock, the handsome army officer reputed to have bedded such 1980s beauties as Selina Scott and Wincey Willis. ‘I’d like a mouthful of his cucumber,’ thought Mrs Thatcher, realistically.
Chapter 2
In a Downing Street guest bedroom, Mrs Thatcher and Major Dashcock tore at each other’s clothes. Soon his massive throbbing manhood burst out of his trousers like a nuclear submarine breaking the surface of the North Sea.
‘Why, it’s bigger than HMS Conqueror!’ exclaimed Mrs Thatcher, as he thrust it into her like a torpedo hitting the Belgrano.
Chapter 3
‘Oh Dennis, must you listen to that infernal cricket on the radio instead of giving me a good rogering?’ said Mrs Thatcher exasperatedly.
‘Shush, the silly mid-on is entering the crease for a vital wicket,’ came the reply.
Thankfully the phone rang. ‘Congratulations on your second election victory with a majority of 144 seats,’ said a familiar voice. Major Dashcock! ‘I’m on leave for a few days. Care to meet up?’
‘I’ll be with you right away,’ said Mrs Thatcher breathlessly, ‘I just have to privatise British Gas first.’
Chapter 4
After several hours of shuddering, mindblowing sex at the world-famous Ritz Hotel, London, Mrs Thatcher and Major Dashcock lay back on the king-size bed.
‘Men usually say they find me intimidating,’ mused Mrs Thatcher.
‘Abject terror makes me horny,’ whispered Major Dashcock. ‘And there’s nothing sexier than a woman who knows her around both chemistry and monetarism.’
‘Oh Hugo, you say the most flattering things! Mount me again like a horse!’ said Mrs Thatcher.
‘Of course, my little Iron Lady,’ said Hugo. But dark clouds were gathering. Clouds by the name of Arthur Scargill.
Chapter 5
It was 1985 and the Miners’ Strike was over. The dreadful working-class people had been defeated and their communist leader was in exile in Yorkshire. All thanks to Mrs Thatcher’s iron will and her brave policemen on overtime from London.
In Major Dashcock’s quarters, Mrs Thatcher removed her M&S underwear, her pert breasts springing free like Exocet missiles. ‘Make love to me, Hugo!’ she ordered.
‘Oh Margaret, underneath that cold, unsympathetic, arrogant, heartless, sneering exterior, you’re just a woman with needs like any other!’ said Dashcock.
‘No, actually I’m the first one,’ said Mrs Thatcher. ‘I’ve just been thinking of a way to further crush the spirit of poor people who can’t be bothered to start their own businesses or join Bupa. I call it the Poll Tax. But first, raunchy sex, please.’
Hugo did as he was commanded, his manhood rearing up ferociously like yet another excruciating metaphor.
