If there's a trophy lover in this affair, it's not 'Marlon' Prescott

Published on Thursday 27 April 2006 01:52

THAT strange cicada-like thrum that you hear is the sound of massed keyboards giving simultaneous birth. Millions of words billowing like coral spore on a moon tide; each responding to an irresistible stimulus: the news that John Prescott has admitted a two- year affair with his assistant private secretary, Tracey Temple.

Mr Prescott's Yorkshire constituents are reported to be "astonished" by the revelations. Astonished? The word has only three syllables and is much too small to convey the shock and awe the rest of us feel. Today, burly men who use a dab of chip-shop vinegar in lieu of aftershave, ripen Stilton in their discarded socks and prefer their waistbands at crotch level, are chuckling appreciatively at the mirror while they shave those multiple chins. They are redeemed. What they see is - as Mel Gibson almost said - what women want. QED. Not that many of them ever really doubted the fact.

For the true measure of the distance between the male and the female of the species is not revealed by speech patterns, purchasing preferences or generated income. But by sexual confidence. When John Prescott was asked in a recent interview which actor he would choose to star in the perfect biopic of his own life, he replied without hesitation: "Marlon Brando."

AND I can guarantee you that he did not envisage the Marlon Brando of those last years: hugely overweight, reclusive and wheelchair-bound. It was the "I coulda been a contender" On the Waterfront version: all brooding menace, taut T-shirt and toned muscle.

When most of us look at John Prescott, we see a bluff, burly, aggressive man in a rumpled suit - an old-fashioned trade-union politician who will throw a punch more easily than a quip. But when John Prescott looks at John Prescott, what he sees is a young Brando. A smooth-skinned package of promise and prowess, just waiting to be properly appreciated. A man who deserves at least two Jags, not to mention feathered seabirds - cormorants, or shags. So what he craves most is a woman who can at least pretend that she sees the same.

Now, this is no job for a wife. Every husband knows that his wife is far too familiar with his frailties to allow him to assume the role of hero for long. It takes distance, and the aphrodisiac of power to permit this kind of myopia. And all research suggests that there is no eroticism quite as potent as that created by the daily intimacy between an eager young female assistant and her powerful, demanding male boss.

The list of those who have succumbed is so long it would require a separate supplement to print. As a result, we are gleefully familiar with the accepted behaviour of all parties. There will be a terse comment from the wronged wife. The mistress will go into hiding, but still be photographed quite a lot, and the career of the named philanderer will appear to be in the balance, while actually being completely secure.

FOR - let's be frank here - there is kudos involved as well as opprobrium. Just as Edwina Currie's revelations of her affair with John Major suddenly made the former prime minister appear just a little more interesting, this is the first time that the largest majority of the British public has even considered John Prescott in terms of sex. It has proved a leap of imagination too traumatic for Tracey Temple's current partner, a lorry driver, who told the Daily Mirror: "I can't believe the woman I want to marry has slept with Prescott. I feel sick thinking about it."

Poor chap. He could probably have forgiven her a fling with Brad Pitt.

The fact that the two-year Whitehall affair predated the present relationship is no consolation to a lorry driver, apparently. He has vowed to pack and leave. So Tracey Temple will be the person who suffers most. Was she showered with gifts by Mr Prescott? I doubt it. Was he an ardent, amorous companion? Your guess is as good as mine. But what he certainly was not, and is not, is any kind of trophy lover.

The same is not true in reverse. There may be sullen and unforgiving silence in the Prescott house tonight. The Deputy Prime Minister will certainly have offered his blunt apologies to family and colleagues. He may even consider these the sincere truth. But, as the clock strikes 2am and Mr Prescott turns irritably in the spare bedroom bed, I rather think he'll smile an appreciative smile. Then fall happily asleep.