In a class all of his own

Born into a family made wealthy by the manufacture of cotton thread, and further enriched by the shrewd dealings in the art world by his father, Alan Clark was the eldest son who could afford to languish in retirement from 27 until the age of 46 - and then emerged to become an MP and the best diarist of the second half of the 20th century.

Why? Possibly because Clark, so far to the right that he felt happy with the National Front and rather admired the Nazis, could always treat politics largely as a game, with more human twists and dramas than he was ever likely to find at the backgammon table.

More likely, though, it's because his wonderfully irreverent prose style sweeps away the image which politicians of all parties always try to project in their worthy memoirs: that they are semi-saintly figures beavering away tirelessly on our behalf and for the greater good of mankind.

Clark's standpoint is that he, and all the rest of them, are in it mainly for number one: for their own glory and self-aggrandisement.

When it comes to it, he can be as slippery and oily as the best of them, and his clumsy attempts to ingratiate himself with the glorious victor of the Falklands leave even the Iron Lady open mouthed in astonishment.

Reaction to this book tends to divide on party lines. Right wingers love it, lefties are reminded once again of the class-ridden society which they are working so hard to destroy.

In fact, Clark's ruminations on his sex life, his hypochondria, his gaming losses and his rivals on the slippery slope within the Tory Party make this book a hugely-entertaining read.

Its value, as a historical record, is in showing how Mrs Thatcher could have been toppled by her own colleagues at any time prior to her Falklands triumph, and thereafter, her progress was irresistible.