Sleeping With Conservatives

Christine Keeler, the girl who brought down a Conservative government, in the iconic Jacobson Chair photo

Could You Hug A Conservative asked a feature in The Guardian newspaper some time ago. Several typical Guardian writers describe their feelings of fear and loathing when, purely in the interests of science of course, they hugged prominent members of the Conservative Party. In a response to that the excellent Lucy Mangan describes what it is like to be a typical labour voting, politically correct thinking, right on leftie journalist and be married to a Conservative. And yet she loves her Tory - Boy hubby. Apart from proving that we cannot control who we fall in lust with this is a very amusing article. Our Guide To The Conservative Psyche. What I find disturbing about all this is the American belief, patricularly stong among Obama's supporters (and before you ask, yes I've heard he does still have

some who have not been totally reduced to idiocy by excessive kool aid drinking) that we must hate all those who differ from us politically and only communicate with conservatives by shouting “fascist” across an ever widening divide as they shout back “limp wristed namby pamby diorreah dollop.” When I was politically active as a member and candidate in the now superseded Liberal Party it was possible to have a drink and trade comical canvassing tales with members of the Labour and Conservative parties. Labour were a bit more difficult, aside from their authoritarian tendencies they were simply unable to understand how people could possibly hold a different opinion to theirs and still maintain repitilian functions like breathing and a pulse, but apart from that and being extremely bar shy they could be OK. Things have changed a lot since then. Margaret Thatcher must take much of the blame; she made it immoral if not quite a criminal offence not to hate and despise anyone less wealthy than oneself and as already remarked on, we have also imported some bad habits from America. And where has all this blinkered intolerance got us? Look at the politicians we have now on all sides. Tossers to a man (or woman though I'm not sure how a woman qualifies as a tosser, maybe frotter is the female equivalent.) The problem is people now take it all too seriously. For Heaven’s sake it’s only politics. It's not as if peoples' lives were at stake. The interesting thing about Lucy Mangan’s article though is the description of the way a Labour and a Conservative supporter who share a bed react to each other when not in bed. It raises another question though, why should it seem strange that a conservative and a socialist should have a sexual relationship? I know Progressives and Labour types like to think of themselves as “the liberal left” but there is nothing liberal about them, populist authoritarianism is a more illiberal philosophy than those of religious control freak cult leaders like Sunny Moon and L Ron Hubbard so I want to make it clear such people are nothing to do with the political philosophy I follow. Speaking personally, though I was a Liberal throughout the years I was running around with my libido in the driving seat, chasing anything with a skirt apart from

Hovercraft ( a phase which lasted for some considerable time after my marriage) I have always found it more fun to sleep with Conservatives or simply disinteresteds than with women who had a commitment to Labour or Liberal politics. Why should that be? I think the answer is simple. Conservatism is about self – reliance, taking responsibility for one's own problems. The left seem determined to believe we are all responsible for everybody's problems. The further to the left people are the more they are influenced by that touchy – feely, quasi – hippy collectivist psychobabble. Thus with a Conservative supporting female a shag is a shag, foreplay is a bonus; live for the moment is their attitude and if the moment lasts longer than a moment or is revisited in quick time so much the better. I recall one lover, Carol (the wife of a wealthy buinessman) not just for her looks and enthusiasm but for her sense of style. Most of our assignations were in "service flats" or else involved booking into cheap hotels but only staying for two hours. We did however get away for one full night together, to see a show in London. The morning after our night at the theatre we checked out of the hotel having skipped both sleep and breakfast. It was through fear of being seen that we bypassed the restaurant; Carol thought because our love affair was so transitory the railway station was the only place it would seem right to eat, as if we were lovers in a French film. For me, crossants, coffee and French ciggies in Euston Station with a beautiful woman ten years my senior seemed a perfect way to end the only full night we would spend together. Another older lady, Linda, (she was thirty four, I was nineteen - commonplace now but scandalous forty three years ago) was a freelance fabric designer and a proto - goth, the type one would expect to be quite left wing, especially someone who would bleach a strand of her black dyed hair and colour it magenta or blue with fabric dye. It wasn't just the style, the eye makeup, the pale pancake and the crimson lippy I loved, I loved Linda (still do a bit). We often stayed out all night, going to a jazz club that served drinks until late and

then sitting in an all night cafe drinking coffee that tasted like cat sweat until dawn. Other times we would stay sober and drive up onto the moors to watch dawn break. I discovered some of the best Indian restaurants around Manchester with Linda and by taking my friends to them became a social leader. We went to folk clubs and were delighted by very mediocre Bob Dylan impersonators. And we made love in the most inappropriate places. The worst was in her Triumph sports car. I had to take the passenger seat out so we could get horizontal and ended up making love with the seat mountings sticking in the fleshy parts of my bottom. Being a gentleman I let her go on top. Linda used to say, "At least Conservatives are happy to admit they're bastards so everyone knows where they stand. Socialists pretend to care as they stab people in the back." The Labour government of the post war years had stabbed her Dad and uncles in the back and ruined the family business. It had been the fate of thousands of small and medium sized businesses as the dead hand of bureaucracy stifled enterprise. Linda gave me my first joint and my first blow job and we had a magical eight months. She ended it by saying, "The longer this lasts the more I will get hurt when you open your eyes and it finally sinks in how much older I am. Look how saggy my tits are." "I love your tits," I protested but she was too wise to let me talk her round. For some years I'd see her from time to time around Manchester. It was always a warm and friendly meeting, if we had time we would go for a cup of coffee or a drink depending on the time of day. And in the end I knew she had been right, to have carried on would have been disastrous. My other Conservative lovers, including but not limited to Liz (Lady Elizabeth to you), Claire, Pat, Sylvia, Kathy, Pauline, were not all rich by any means were all been distinguished by their education, cultural values and ability to enjoy what life offered (In Pauline's case life had offered very little, the link leads to a rather poignant poem). Perhaps they have not been typical Conservatives but people who simply cast their

votes that way because they saw through the caring pose of socialists and recognised the innate elitism, the economic insanity and the assumptions of moral superiority that lay beneath a thin veneer of egalitarianism. They were certainly all bohemian in their attitudes, had it been otherwise they would have hated me because when Oscar Wilde said "We are all in the gutter but some of us are looking at the stars," he could have been referring to me as well as himself. Left inclined potential lovers on the other hand are altogether more complex. You buy the dinner with fine wine, do all the small talk, eye contact, say their name a lot i.e. I like your hair Denise, Lovely dress Denise, can I shag you Denise? (a nod to Paul Calf there) and with a Conservative you are home and dry – well hopefully not dry but you know what I mean. If your date is a supporter of the left however, to get from an agreement to do it to actually getting down to doing it us lads have to be prepared to endure interrogation about our positions on third world poverty, gay rights, whether possessing a penis is sexist and what we think the government should be doing about human rights abuses in Outer Slobbovia when the only positions we are interested in are on a double bed, a sofa, the back seat of a car, under a blanket on the beach and in a hammock (don't try that unless you have a good sense of balance.). With a Lib Dem lady it's two hours of middle class angst and self analysis. Am I too intense? Am I too frivolous? Did I make the right career choice? Will people think I’m a slapper if I sleep with you on the first date? Do you just want me for sex or are you looking for a relationship? (Like any man is going to give an honest reply to the last two.) And though the man really wants to say “Look, this is our first date, Yes, I’m looking for uncomplicated sex,” should he fail to give the required answer to any of these questions his chance of a bunk up evaporates like methylated spirit on a hotplate. Even after we get our leg over the ordeal is not over. There is another two hours of angst and self analysis about was she good in bed, is she frigid because she doesn't

give Bjs, has she betrayed her feminist principles, are her tits too big / too small blah blah blah? And all the time you want to roll over and go to sleep. I knew a Californian 'liberal' once, not as a lover; the chemistry was there but she was a fan of 'Seven Habits Of Highly Effective People' and I just did not tick enough boxes on her "shall I go to bed with him" checklist. I quickly learned she had done me a favour however, the girl, let's call her J, was so screwed up she would have made Britney Spears seem sane. We were both consultants to the same organisation and as time passed J learned I was quite popular with female executives we worked with. (Champagne always works) Suddenly I was on the agenda again. We were on a trip to a regional office and after dinner in the hotel, during which she had got very very drunk (when J got drunk she went to a very dark place) I learned she had changed the booking and put us in a double room. Do I look like a slut? (Don't answer that!) They had no single room, only a twin if the people who had booked after us were happy to swap. I had them switch while J protested that I was being unreasonable and putting the staff to unnecessary trouble. Later in our shared room she was parading around in Agent Provocateur lingerie (great legs, nice arse, shame about the psychology). J seemed to think I'd be bowled over. Like I hadn't seen anything similar before. The trouble was I knew this was a game she had playedwith others. I was s supposed to declare my undying love to which she would respond by telling me all the reasons why I did not measure up to her standards (not a CEO or senior director, not ambitious enough, too short, too frivolous, too married) before relenting and giving me a sympathy shag. No thanks. I got into my bed and went to sleep. Next morning she had gone, left the hotel in the early hours after making a scene at reception. She had boarded the early train to London though we had a day of meetings scheduled. I managed to raise her on her mobile and told her to go home and plead illness rather than the office and I'd cover for her.

The next time we were out with colleagues she told me off for a politically incorrect wisecrack. J did learn who her real friends were in the end. All the consultants in our partnership were out celebrating, she drank too much and went to the usual dark place and three guys whose intentions were not honourable hit on her. As they led her out of the bar a barman who had heard them talking warned our party of what they had in mind. I set off while the others were still thinking about it, caught the wannabe roasters up and confronted them. Three to one? It was never going to be a fair fight but hey, only one of them ended up needing hospital treatment. I'm not an animal. I guess that's why Conservative (and conservative) women like me. If something needs doing I do it, no vacillation, no angst. Just get right in there. And I like people who don't mess about and hate mind game players. There's no prejudice against socialist or 'progressive' women so long as they are straightforward. Life's short, we should get to the point and avoid wasting time. A true Conservative woman can say "another bottle of Champagne" in ten languages but not know how to ask the price even in her mother tongue. That's fine, knowing whether I can afford it is my job. A true Bohemian male can say "I love you" in twelve languages and not meant it in any. And lovers who understand that are fine too. A socialist of either sex can say "what are the human rights issues" in four or five languages but can never get an answer to the big question that bugs them, "Why do interesting men / women never want to date me?" And so the association of socialism with earache is why I will remain a Liberal thinker (small government, fewer laws, personal responsibility,) but not a 'progressive liberal' support (big governerment, lots of laws, massive taxes). Labour supporters and the amorphous 'progressive left' get more and more angry because I do not accept their world view as the only one that makes sense. They will assume I am shallow, self interested and politically incorrect. But think of this: If you were a woman or a vulnerable man and were getting beaten up by muggers, who would you rather see

walking towards you, me or somebody who would start agonising over the criminal's 'rights' instead of beating the living crap out of them. This article should offer an insight into the reasons why socialists always come to power on a wave of hope and leave on a Tsunami of despair. It should also win a few more supporters for the cause of anarchic humanism even if people are only tempted by the prospect of drinking Champagne with me. footnote: After my heroic rescue J sent me a dozen red roses with a card that read 'Thank you for last night'. Red roses? And she sent them to the office having moved on to another assignment by then. After that I never did manage to convince anyone that we had not been at it like rattlesnakes since we first arrived in that organisation.

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