Night I dragged a drunk Norman Scott away from an angry bishop

As Britain relived one of the most dramatic political scandals of all time — the Jeremy thorpe affair — it brought back memories of the days i spent as a reporter, in hiding with norman scott when he was the most infamous man in the nation; and when, after we had shared a few drinks, he outraged a room full of indignant vicars.

Once upon a time, but not for long, norman scott was a national joke.

in the days when British politics was dominated by the bland, grey images of Harold Wilson and Edward Heath, Jeremy thorpe brought glamour and dash to the scene, with his flashy hat, dapper outfits and silky oratory.

thorpe was a refreshing, highly visible, and popular politician.

But even as his popularity grew, norman scott was telling anyone who would listen that he had been thorpe’s lover and that the Liberal Party leader had tried to have him murdered.

How ridiculous was that? i was a young reporter when i first heard scott’s name, in a newsroom sometime in 1975. a man on the newsdesk said: ‘some screwball is telling people Jeremy thorpe hired a hitman to kill him because thorpe’s a homo and they had a fling.’

We all chuckled — journalists are accustomed to dealing with, and ignoring, the lunatic claims of oddballs. soon after, early in 1976, we stopped laughing, and not long after i found myself appointed scott’s ‘ minder’ when my newspaper, the sun, did a deal with him for exclusive interviews.

in my media career, i’ve spent time with presidents, prime ministers, monarchs and princes, the sex Pistols, a couple of rolling stones, and a few billionaires.

But i’ll never forget my days in the depths of Devon with norman scott. it was a bleak period for the media — hoodwinked into believing scott was a freak and a liar.

When the sunday Mirror received a dossier of powerful evidence to support scott’s claim, the editor sent it to thorpe and didn’t publish a word.

Even in 1976, when the thorpescott scandal blew up into a national story, the sunday times published a front-page lead, headlined: the lies of norman scott.

the truth has now been recreated in the BBC’s mini- series, a Very English scandal.

Hugh Grant pulls off brilliantly the bleakly cruel, sociopathic style and chilling charm of thorpe, as well as the bouncy walk and the drooping mouth.

Grant is doing well in his wrinkly, post-matinee idol career — much more entertaining as an actor than a frenetic anti-media activist.

But Ben Whishaw is magnificent as scott himself. i found it spooky watching him. He is norman scott — the man i remember so well from our days together in Devon. scott was terrified, but he was also witty and charming and full of mischief — especially after a few drinks.

the hurricane that would destroy thorpe hit him soon after scott appeared in court accused of social security fraud.

He was fined, but cleverly used the protection of the court to publicly accuse thorpe.

You can say pretty well anything in court, true or false, without fear of libel — and scott claimed he was being hounded because of his sexual relationship with thorpe.

His allegations made instant, massive headlines. Within weeks, i was in Devon, and norman scott was a passenger in my creaking, second-hand austin Maxi.

i was with my colleague, the photographer arthur Edwards, and our assignment was to keep scott out of the hands of resourceful rivals — such as the Daily Mail.

He was a nervous wreck when we first met, with large frightened eyes. He was also an odd contradiction. He was a terrified passenger in my car — though, to be fair, it was only just roadworthy — yet fearless on horseback.

He would squeal as i manoeuvred each tight country bend. ‘Please, please, don’t drive so fast,’ he would shout, curled in a ball on my back seat.

But we were driving to stables he knew, where he fearlessly jumped high hurdles on a huge hunter. He found his karma on horseback. But much of the time he was as terrified as thorpe was unperturbed.

When we heard that thorpe’s north Devon constituency was throwing a wine-and-cheese party in his honour, we left an anxious norman alone with a bottle of whisky, and gate-crashed it.

We were there when thorpe bounced in, bright-eyed and devilmaycare, beaming at the cheers and the back slapping. He was at the heart of a national uproar, but seemed immune to it.

i thought that night that maybe his inner feelings were reflected in the nearby spectacle of his second wife, Marion, who leaned against a wall, away from the crowd, her face grey and tormented, dragging deeply on a cigarette.

that was the night we took norman to dinner in a whitewashed hotel on the banks of the river taw in Barnstaple. the whisky had cheered him up and released his prankish side; a few drinks always did. the hotel’s grand dining room was packed, and every other man in the room was wearing a white clerical collar.

We’d walked, unwittingly, into a

Thorpe’s wife looked grey and tormented Brave is just the word to describe Norman Scott

banquet of vicars. And they were not justany vicars; they were shepherd soft he flocks of Devon—where Thorpe was even then idolised as a hero.

Heads turned as we were led to our table. Arthur Edwards and I exchanged glances; we already knew this was a terriblemistake.

Norman, reinforced by whisky, wa sun fazed. Each time he caught the eye of a fr owning priest, he poked out his tongue. It was clear any talk of theology and godliness had been put aside to whisper among themselves about the scandalous guest among them. Halfway through our awkward meal, the bishop in charge, rank indicated by the vivid purple shirt that went with his dog collar, as immediate, obedient silence as he rose to propose the toast .‘ Ladies, and gentlemen ,’ he said, raising his glass of wine. In an instant, Norman Scott sprang to his feet, clattering the glasses and crockery on our table and cap sizing a bottle of claret; we watched as the red wine bled across the white table cloth. The bishop went silent and everyone turned their attention to our table. Scott was swaying s ever ely,w like to make a few remarks in response .’

Arthur and I seized our charge, taking one arm each, the room. He giggled and pro tested as we led him away.

‘Oh, please ,’ he slurred happily .‘ You must allow me to address my clergy. After all, I am the Queen of Barn staple .’

I drove Scott to the tiny, hide away cottage he was renting and joined him for a drink .He stroked my cheek, and said with a wicked smile: I think you have hadtoo much.

I made my excuse sand drove to my hotel, I’mnotsure my explanation would have stood up in court, I quickly believed Scott’ s story that his Great Dane, a, had been shot and he, would have been killed if the assailant’ s gun hadn’ t jammed. was too much detail and consistency for it to be invented.

But there’ s also no doubt he became a stalker,

There is a deeply thoughtprovokingand moving moment in A Very English Scandal,in a conversation between Thorpe and Peter B es sell, the fellow Li be ralMP who helped gag Scott ., as homosexualmen,yhidt heir sexuality, while Scott was honest about his. ythingt hat onewo rd—brave—best describes NormanScott. Trouble some, may have been—but he was a young, working-classgay man who took on the Establishment and refused to besil en ced.velos ta tthe1979t rial, when,i none of the most mocked verdictsin legal history, Thorpe and others were found not guilty of conspiracy to murder. hell winning now.