The eccentricity of Dick Crossman, MP.

My parents were friendly with the late Dick Crossman, who was Labour MP for Coventry East, from 1945, until his death in 1974.

He was Head of the Department of Social Services, until the Labour Party's defeat in 1970. Robert Maxwell also lost his seat Ä that of Labour MP for Buckingham, in the same year.

Dick Crossman lived in a large Georgian house called Prescote Manor, in Oxfordshire, with his wife, Anne, precocious son, Patrick, and daughter, Virginia.

Patrick died, tragically, at the age of 15. He was found dead in the kitchen, on the first anniversary of his father's death.

Mr Crossman was a happy, jolly, hearty sort of fellow. It was impossible not to like him. He knew Captain Bob and always spoke well of him, even if the friendliness was not reciprocated.

Mr Crossman was extremely sympathetic towards Captain Bob, whose defeat caused his workers to follow him round in wretched droves, sobbing, and even go so far as to sing For He's a Jolly Good Fellow.

Like Captain Bob, Crossman was also upset by Labour's defeat in 1970, and was amused by the story of the action I took in Buckingham, when I climbed onto the roof of the Buckingham Town Hall. I went up the fire escape and took down the Union Jack, replacing it with a red flag. Several burly policemen got me down. My gesture cheered up the then broken-hearted Captain Bob.

My encounter with Dick Crossman was on a summer's day. I went with my parents to have lunch with him and his family, at Prescote Manor.

Crossman's swimming pool had just been dug out, painted and filled up. He was unusually excited about this, and wanted it to be officially "opened". He tied a pink ribbon to the diving board, and metal step-ladders in the deep and shallow end.

He approached me with a pair of rusty, gardening shears, and asked me to cut the ribbon and make a formal opening speech, while his wife, son and daughter lined themselves up, staring vacantly at the water. Crossman said,

"I want you to make a speech. Don't make a short curt speech like the Queen, make a good, long, wordy speech."

Although I liked the man, I was beginning to think he was a brick short of a load, but I did as I was told. It took me a long time to cut the ribbon, with the rusty gardening shears. Crossman waited, theatrically clearing his throat.

I started speaking, taking care to use a lot of long words and multi-claused sentences, to oblige my nutty but inoffensive host. I spoke very slowly, in a laboured funereal tone.

"We are gathered together, on this hot pleasant, sunny, if somewhat breezy summer's day, to celebrate the completion and subsequent opening of this charming, aqua-marine painted swimming pool," I began. Crossman cleared his throat again. I continued,

"It nestles in the midst of somewhat picturesque, glorious, radiantly green countryside, adding quite significantly to its charm, and it is evident that it has been strategically constructed at an extremely low altitude, to protect it from prevailing easterly winds, which can cast a blight on the enjoyment of bathers, even during hot summer days.

"Although I have not yet had the honour of sampling its wholesome rippling water, I would estimate that it is well over seven feet deep at the diving end, rendering the act of diving safe and pleasurable.

"I also note the immaculate silver, chrome polish on the two step-ladders as well as its gleaming glow on either side of the diving board."

Crossman interrupted me.

"All right, all right! I know I said, 'Don't make a short curt speech like the Queen,' but I had no idea you were going to go to an extreme like this."

I told Captain Bob about the incident, while he leant back on a chair chewing on an unlit cigar, adding,

"You should have gone up behind the maniac, and given him a bloody good shove into the water," he said irritably.