A Political Practical Joke
by Eleanor Berry

The year was 1975. I was young and foolish in those days. I had been invited to a fancy dress party in Central London. I dislike fancy dress parties but I went along on this occasion because I didn’t have anything else to do. I wore a blue and white striped T-shirt and blue trousers and said I was a gondolier.
At this particular fancy dress party, I met a man called Cuthbert Winterbottom. He was said to be extremely anti-Semitic and was a member of the National Front. He came dressed as Hitler. I thought his choice of clothing was in appallingly bad taste so I decided to take him to task. I approached him and he appeared both drunk and stoned. I asked him where he had hired his uniform and he replied “Sainsbury’s” which confirmed my suspicions that he was very drunk indeed. I happened to hear him say that he was short of money.
“I’ve got a brilliant idea,” I said to him. “I know a very rich man in Kensington called Mr Lenin* who has a penchant for men in Nazi uniforms. He is a sexual masochist and likes men in Nazi uniforms to break into his house, demand to have his portrait wrenched down from the wall and spit at it. If he likes you, he will give you five hundred pounds in cash.”
Winterbottom found this acceptable. He tumbled into the passenger’s seat of my Mini Clubman Estate and slumped over the dash.
“I say, you’re not going to be sick, are you?” I asked, anxiously.
“No,” he said. He didn’t sound very convincing.
I drove him from Hyde Park Corner to Knightsbridge and on to Kensington Gore. From there, I swerved into Kensington Park Gardens. A sentry sprang from his box to stop my Mini Clubman but I drove straight at him. He jumped out of the way.
I remembered where the Soviet Embassy was because I had been there several times before in my communist days, when I regularly took flowers there on anniversaries. I screeched to a halt outside the Soviet Embassy and told Winterbottom to get out of the car.
He raised his head and stared at the embroidered hammer and sickle in the corner of the Soviet flag which fluttered and flapped in the brisk April wind.
“What’s that red thing?” he asked inanely.
“That’s Mr Lenin’s bath towel,” I said. “He’s put it out to dry. If you’re wondering about the insignia in the corner, that’s his family crest. His ancestors were farmers and carpenters.”
Winterbottom was satisfied. I continued, “Mr Lenin doesn’t like people to ring the bell. He likes them to climb over the gate, go up the steps and bang peremptorily on the door. You will probably find a somewhat puzzled-looking man just inside the door. Don’t worry about him. He’s Mr Lenin’s servant. Just say to him: ‘I’ve come to wrench Mr Lenin’s portrait down from the wall and spit at it’. All you have to do is push him roughly aside. That’s part of the turn on.”
“Are you sure this man will be there?” asked Winterbottom, his speech slurred.
“Most definitely,” I replied. “One of my friends made five hundred pounds to carry out this stunt only the other night. Just go up to Mr Lenin’s portrait and spit at it. You’ll find it quite easily. He’s a nondescript, bald-headed man dressed in a collar, waistcoat and tie. He likes his visitors to do the spitting while he leans over the banisters. You must appear very abusive and aggressive. If he is satisfied with your performance, he will throw the money over the banisters in fifty pound notes. That’s all you have to do.”
Winterbottom got out of the Clubman. He climbed up the iron gate, brandishing a riding whip, but his clothing got stuck on the top of the gate. His cap fell to the ground on the other side of the gate, onto Russian soil. He desperately tried to get over to the other side but he was too drunk to do so. He lost his temper and started screaming and shouting.
“Is there a bugger in there called Lenin?”
Lights were switched on in the Embassy. It was two o’clock in the morning. Winterbottom thought that he would soon have an audience. He continued to shout obscenities.
A policeman from a sentry box reached up and tapped Winterbottom on the leg.
“What are you doing, breaking into the bloody Soviet Embassy?” he asked mildly.
“Soviet Embassy? Soviet bloody Embassy! Don’t start getting funny with me.”
“Get down from there this instant. What is your name?”
“My name’s Winterbottom and I’m Eleanor Berry’s aunt,” said Winterbottom, still pie-eyed.
“I thought I told you to get down.”
“Sir Winston Churchill wouldn’t have stood for this f…ing treatment, Officer,” bellowed Winterbottom.
“Sir Winston Churchill,” shouted the policeman, “was not in the habit of breaking into Soviet Embassies in a Nazi uniform at two o’clock in the morning, using obscene language, brandishing a riding whip and saying he was someone’s aunt!”
Winterbottom fell to the ground, outside the gate, like an India rubber ball, having torn his uniform. The police officer spoke into his radio.
“An aggressive, foul-mouthed man in a Nazi uniform’s been trying to break into the Soviet Embassy, Sergeant.”
“You don’t understand, “wailed Winterbottom. “A woman put me up to it. She told me that a man called Mr Lenin paid men in Nazi uniforms to barge into his house and spit at his portrait.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“This is just not fair!” bleated Winterbottom. “A woman put me up to it, like I said.”
“Oh, she did, did she? I’m going to have to sling you down the nick. Have you been drinking?”
“I've had a bottle of wine and five pints of beer.”
It was at that point that I realized I had gone a bit too far. If Winterbottom had actually been shot dead by the Russians, I might have been charged with manslaughter. Not only that, my escapade would have got into all the papers, and my father would almost certainly have confiscated my Clubman which he had given me for Christmas. I got out of the Clubman and approached the police officer. I told him the whole thing was my fault and that it was a practical joke. The police officer turned to Winterbottom and said: “Do you realize you could have triggered off a major international incident?”
“Jesus, Officer, where is your sense of humour?” I exclaimed.

* Lenin was the leader of the Bolshevik Party and founder of the Soviet State