In the spring of 1998, the year-old Labour government of Tony Blair fulfilled one of its manifesto promises by giving Londoners a referendum on reviving City-wide government in the capital, 12 years after Margaret Thatcher shut down the Greater London Council.
As a young and very junior staffer at the Greater London Labour Party, I had the chance to participate in the campaign for a Yes vote that was widely regarded as a foregone conclusion.
The only element of my role in these historic (Isn't this overdoing a bit? Ed.) events that I remember was driving various celebrities and politicians around the city to campaign stops in a party-issue red Rover 45.
Among those I chauffeured was Prunella Scales, who was charming and witty, a handful of largely unmemorable MPs, and the great, now sadly late, Glenda Jackson.
Glenda was both politician and celebrity. She had jacked in her extraordinary, Oscar-winning film career and been elected as Labour MP in the marginal Hampstead and Highgate constituency in 1992. Six years later, with a new majority of over 14,000, she was a minister with responsibility for transport in London and was regarded as a potential mayoral candidate.
She was then highly active and visible in the campaign, and I drove her on three occasions. One passed off peacefully, and I remember little of it, except realising that for the general public, she was still a huge star. People loved her.
I loved her. She was very very funny, smoked like a chimney, swore like a trooper and was enormously entertaining company. In private at least she was acerbic and spoke entirely without filters. She was also generous. I smoked at the time too, and she liked that. Coming away from one of the visits, she suddenly yelled, "Stop the car", and jumped out, diving into a local newsgagent. She came back with four packets of Dunhill, two of which she gave to me.
On the second of the three visits we went to the Arndale Centre in Wandsworth, a down-on-its-luck shopping mall. Glenda was there to support the local party and Tony Colman, the MP. Colman's chief claim to fame was that he succeeded David Mellor in Putney on May 1 1997, and at his own declaration was a mere witness to one of the most dramatic and memorable moments of the night, when James Goldsmith taunted Mellor with his "out, out, out" chant.
I digress. I drove Glenda from Westminster to Wandsworth and dropped her at the entrance to the shopping centre before going to park the car. That could only have taken 15 minutes, and I returned to the Arndale ready to support the campaign activities.
None of which lasted long. As soon as I reappeared, Glenda, clearly fuming, snapped, "Get the car, we're leaving."
Somewhat bewildered, I did as asked. I brought the Rover back around to the front of the shoppung centre. Bidding her adoring public goodbye, Glenda climbed in.
"That man is a cunt," she said.
"What? Who? What?" I am no shrinking violet and have been known to swear, but I was shocked.
"Tony Fucking Colman," she said. "We came all the way down here to support him, and he spent the whole time on the fucking phone."
Please understand that there is an element of paraphrasing some of the dialogue in this story, and so while it might not be a 100% accurate transcription of the conversation, I can assure you it captures both the spririt and the substance as well as individual words and phrases that are etched in memory.
It turned out that Colman had been on the phone when Glenda arrived and treated her to a series of raised fingers indicating he'd only be a couple of minutes. She lost patience quickly and that was that.
A few days later, I was asked to collect her again. On this occasion she was to visit an active set to promote London as a destination for filmmakers, something that would be made easier somehow by having a Mayor and elected assembly.
Off we went to West London and the Portobello Road market where I deposited Glenda on the perimeter of the set from where she was collected by a flunky. Or met by dignitaries. I don't know, because on this occasion I was to take the car away and return at a pre-set time to collect her.
And I did, Glenda got in the car, in all likelihood lit up, and was off.
"What a cunt," she said.
I was less shocked this time.
"Who's a cunt this time?" I asked.
"Hugh Grant."
OK, so now I was shocked. My entire exposure to Hugh Grant at this time had been watching Four Weddings and a Funeral, which I loved, and who could possibly not love floppy-haired Hugh?
"What did he do? Wasn't he nice to you? Did something happen?"
"He was perfectly charming," she said. "It all went fine."
"So, er..."
"I will tell you this, if someone had come to one of my film sets and asked to interrupt for something like that there's no fucking way I'd have allowed it."
It seemed to me somewhat ungrateful and I said so.
She spluttered bit and sort of agreed I may have had a point, although she neither looked or sounded like she meant it. And so we smoked a bit more and moved on. It turned out that Grant had been filming the famous scene in Notting Hill where he walks through the market as the seasons change, although I only realised that later after watching the movie. (Which I also like)
I dropped Glenda back in Westminster and never met her again. Although almost 20 years later I did see her in the flesh one last time. She was cast as King Lear at a production at the Old Vic, and despite living in Madrid I wouldn't have missed it for the world. She was powerful and magnificent and it made me regret I hadn't had the chance to see her on stage in her prime. She must really have been something.
The poster for that production hangs in our house, and I cannot help but smile and whisper a four letter word when I walk past it.
So long Glenda, and thanks for all the fags.