‘ Do you ride,’ the peer asked. ‘People who enjoy riding always enjoy sex’

myself. why would the 7th earl of

longford, Knight of the Garter, former Cabinet minister, be calling me in Muswell Hill? I assumed it was a practical joke.

But it wasn’t. It was the great man himself — and he wanted my help. He had decided to set up an independent commission of inquiry to look at the whole question of pornography in our time.

‘It’s a high-powered group. we’ve got two bishops, an archbishop, a High Court judge and Malcolm Muggeridge. But we need some young blood. I thought of you and Cliff Richard. what do you say?’ I said, ‘Yes.’ And in saying yes, I let myself into a world as curious as anything Alice found in wonderland. Fifty years on, I still have vivid dreams about it.

I am not complaining. It was an extraordinary, eye-opening experience — and it introduced me to some fascinating figures, including Cliff. At the first full meeting of the Pornography Commission, Cliff and I sat side by side.

I was 22. He was 31, but he looked much younger, dressed in a gorgeous nut-brown chamoisleather suit, with silk shirt and scarves to match.

The room was crowded and chaotic. It was like the courtroom scene at the end of Alice In wonderland: a lot of colourful old cards milling about, all talking at once. I recognised the journalist Peregrine worsthorne looking like a dandified version of the white Rabbit, and a couple of token women (a pair of late-middle-aged doctors with low-slung bosoms) looked exactly like the Duchess and the Cook.

lord longford, with unexpected authority, called us to order and welcomed us to ‘the crusade’. (Crusade? I thought this was supposed to be an independent, open-minded inquiry. never mind.)

He was 65, tall, thin, a little stooped, bald with tufts of still-black hair sprouting on either side of his crown and bits of yesterday’s lunch on his lapels and tie. I liked him a lot.

From that first meeting on, Frank took me under his wing. I remember he entertained me to lunch at the

Garrick Club on the day after he had been installed as a Knight of the Garter. He was devoted to the Queen. ‘She is wonderful, beautiful and very funny. People don’t realise how amusing she can be.’

I suddenly heard myself asking, ‘Do you think the Queen enjoys sex?’

Frank wasn’t the least bit abashed. ‘Of course she does,’ he enthused, raising his glass of Beaune to her. ‘She’s a healthy Christian woman. And she enjoys riding, as I do.

‘People who enjoy riding always enjoy sex. It’s well known. Do you ride much, Gyles?’ ‘no, I don’t.’ ‘I’m sorry to hear it.’ He sipped at his wine before adding earnestly, ‘She isn’t a puritan, you know, the Queen. And nor am I. People expect me to be teetotal, but I’m not. I love wine. And I enjoy sex greatly. After all, I’ve had eight children.

‘I swim in the nude, regularly. There’s nothing nicer. I doubt that the Queen swims in the nude. Prince Philip might. They’ve got a pool at Buckingham Palace, you know.’

AS well as the meetings to discuss pornography, where we would sit around in a solemn circle flicking through filthy magazines, we younger members were sent out to do fieldwork in Soho: in ‘the square mile of depravity’, as lord longford called it.

I was intrigued to find on these forays that our fellow customers really were wearing shabby fawn-coloured raincoats. At one shop, we spoke to the manager. we told him we were doing research for lord longford. He chuckled. ‘That’s what they all say nowadays.’

THe climax of my time on lord longford’s Pornography Commission was our research trip to Denmark. Six of us went to Copenhagen — advertised as ‘Sin City’, ‘the most permissive place on earth’ — to reap the alien porn.

On the flight out, lord longford read the Bible (Book

Of Proverbs), and didn’t lift his eyes from the page. ‘I am preparing myself for the ordeal we are going to have to face, Gyles.’

Over dinner at the hotel, we were briefed by an official from the British embassy on where to find Denmark’s hottest sex clubs. After we’d eaten, Frank gave us each £10 spending money.

‘That should be more than enough,’ said the diplomat. ‘You can usually get live sex for around a fiver.’

we decided to hunt in pairs and meet back at the hotel at midnight to compare notes.

I teamed up with Sue Pegden, a 21-year-old social psychologist, and lord longford went off with Dr Christine Saville, a wise old bird and prison psychiatrist.

Sue and I wandered sheepishly in and out of assorted sex shops and eventually

ended up at the Private Club where (for £7) we had ringside seats. Stark-naked hostesses offered us plastic beakers of beer and, frankly, anything else we wanted.

As they squeezed past us along the row, by accident or design, their pubic hair brushed our noses. I started to sneeze.

During the more lurid moments, Sue and I simply grinned inanely at each other or gazed steadfastly at our knees.

when we got back to the hotel, Frank was looking positively wild-eyed. ‘I feel exhausted, disgusted and degraded,’ he shuddered.

At the first club he’d been to, he found a stout middle-aged man onstage with his trousers round his ankles being attended to by a naked dancer.

Frank gazed on the scene aghast and then the penny dropped. The fat man was not part of the act: this was a club with audience participation.

Hastily, lord longford got to his feet and made for the exit.

Unfortunately, the manager, taking him for a disappointed customer, chased after him, ‘But, sir, don’t go, you haven’t seen any intercourse yet. The intercourse here is excellent. I assure you it’s next on the programme.’ Frank fled into the street.

On our second night, we took in a blue movie. It could not have been more explicit. In the front row lord longford

and Peregrine worsthorne perched on tubular chairs, eyes popping as they studied the scratchy screen.

Quite soon, and quite loudly, they began to tell one another how desperately boring it was. ‘let’s go,’ said Perry. ‘I can’t,’ said Frank, ‘I walked out of the live show last night, I’ve got to sit this one out.’

In the end, a compromise was reached: we endured five minutes’ more thrusting and then all left together, with Perry whispering wittily, ‘Just as they’re coming, we’re going.’

After three days in the erotic wonderland of Copenhagen, we flew home, our cases packed with free samples. As soon as we reached the customs hall at Heathrow, lord longford accosted a young man in uniform and thrust a thick blue folder into his hands.

‘I want you to examine these magazines. Carefully. You may have heard of me. I am the earl of longford. I was a member of the last government. I have just returned from a fact-finding mission to Copenhagen . . .’

The young man leafed through the sordid material, nodding appreciatively. At this point, Frank realised he was not addressing a customs officer but a courier for American express.

ON THE flight back, I’d asked lord longford if he was sorry he came. ‘no, it has been necessary, dreadful but essential. Of course, I would rather have gone to Rome with Mary. You know Mary?’

I knew Mary whitehouse quite well, having taken part in debates with her. She was a teacher-turned-campaigner, an articulate champion of traditional Christian values; to look at, she was the spitting image of Dame edna everage but nobody’s fool.

She had planned to call her campaigning organisation ‘Clean Up national Television’ — until she looked twice at the poster, and saw the problem.

‘Mary flew to Rome yesterday,’ said Frank. ‘She’s gone to see the Pope. I said to her, “Mary, you are off to Heaven, while I am going to Hell.” ’

ADAPTED by Corinna Honan from Odd Boy Out by Gyles Brandreth, published on 16 September by Michael Joseph at £20. © Gyles Brandreth 2021. to order a copy for £18 (offer valid until September 25, 2021; UK p&p free on orders over £20), visit mailshop.co.uk/books or call 020 3308 9193.