I would give May a glam makeover

ISHOULD have better things to do. Christmas is coming. Presents won’t buy themselves. Matching pyjamas for nearest and dearest have still to be sourced. Classic novels I still have not perused stand accusingly on my shelves. I have radio shows – two a day – to present, columns to write, a loft to lag, a stone to lose and oodles of stuff I should be worrying about.

Instead I devote several minutes a day to giving an imaginary makeover to our Prime Minister. Would I bother to do this if she were a chap? I have no idea but I do need to get this minor obsession off my chest.

First step in the May-cover is to rid the woman of her terrible trouser suits. They are faux male, unflattering and make nothing of her impressive pins and willowy figure.

Baggy, often in shades of gentlemanly grey, they defeminise and bulk her up in an unforgivable crime against tailoring. What is worse they harden her and give her a slightly menacing Angela Merkelesque quality when what she badly needs is softness.

I would bin the trews and introduce some dresses in velvet, wool and brushed cotton. They should be a little bit swishy, flowing, borderline floaty with gently understated embroidery or tiny traces of lace.

Wrap frocks in pliable jersey would showcase her famous cleavage elegantly. Skirts would be on the knee or knitted with a waterfall effect, cascading to the ankles like the one Meghan Markle wore to Coventry.

In a subtly patterned and flared skirt teemed with a cashmere sweater, maybe with a tiny touch of beading at the neck, the PM would be a delight to behold. She would look gorgeous in a very pale blush pink or rose gold.

Buttons should be pretty, tiny and pearly. No jackets permitted. Nothing should evoke the military. There should be a ban on epaulettes, leather trim or chunky brass buttons. Our Prime Minister is a good-looking woman with a kind heart and she should stop donning suits of armour like a retired general.

Step two: build a giant pyre of those hideous chain-mail necklaces and burn them. A certain breed of stylist embraces the statement necklace as a workable way to DISGRACED fixer Max Clifford has died in prison at the age of 74.

It is never pleasant to learn that someone you have met has passed away but my encounter with Clifford was laced with menace and aggression.

It was 1995. We were shooting a distract attention from the ageing neck. It does not work.

All an ungraceful brace of pebbles, shells, lumps of Perspex or boulders of glass clanking about an antique neck achieves is to fill the beholder with a combination of sympathy and horror. An ugly necklace is just that: ugly.

Mrs May should try delicate jewellery, a simple string of pearls, a show for Channel 5’s Vanessa’s Day With… It was a jolly programme involving me spending 24 hours with a celebrity. I woke up with them, cleaned my teeth next to them. You get the picture.

Filming began with Clifford in an innocuous way. I asked him a locket on a chain. She would dazzle in earrings with a little drop effect.

Imagine the gems catching the light as she turns her head. The very mention of which brings me to the prime ministerial hair. Would it be a terrible betrayal of her political principles to grow it just a tad longer and maybe lace the grey with a few discreet highlights? Call me trivial and superficial but a monthly couple of unremarkable questions. He seemed approachable. Then suddenly – on camera and witnessed by the whole production team – he lost it.

He began yelling obscenities. His face grew dark. He threatened to destroy me. He outlined the foul session with a gifted colourist would make a world of difference.

Step three: vamp up the shoes. That leopard skin kitten heel pair wore out years ago. Before you say I should be ashamed of myself for wasting time and suggest I might benefit from a fairly radical makeover myself let me agree with you but, in mitigation, add the simple phrase: a girl can dream can’t she?

THINGS TOOK A DARK TURN THE DAY I MET MAX CLIFFORD

ways in which he would bring about my demise. I was frightened to death. The producer and I tried to placate him.

Filming continued amid his curses, sulks, rants and threats. I have never disliked an interviewee more.