Don’t know a great deal about Norman Lamont other than he boasts the dubious honour of being the Chancellor of the Exchequer who on “Black Wednesday” in 1992, withdrew the pound from the ERM despite assuring his doting public a mere week earlier that he would sooner lease his testicles to Stomp. Added to which, he sported a pair of the most formidable eyebrows in British political history and a face of towering, pasty-skinned stupidity.
Cartoon God Gerald Scarfe tells a mini anecdotelet about an occasion in the summer of 1993 when, after ruthlessly stitching up Lamont in the national press every week for god knows how long, he found himself sitting at the next table from the chinless goon in a hotel restaurant.
“We ignored each other until the end of the meal, when he introduced himself, ” says Scarfe. “We shook hands and exchanged pleasantries.”
I tell this slight story because of the feeling of unease I have whenever I meet my victims. Had I been behaving as I normally do to Norman in my drawings, I would have tipped his cauliflower soup all over his carefully coiffed head and rammed his duck up the other end.”