A publicity blitz by Saddam

I WOULD like to place it on record once and for all that this column has never succumbed to any pressure from lobby groups or been bribed or corrupted. To be quite honest, I am not sure how it is done. Even if I wanted to be drawn into the evil world of PR and smears and innuendoes, I simply wouldn't know how to go about it.

In fact, I was saying so only yesterday to my old friend Adrian Wardour-Street, doyen of the PR world. On what promised to be a particularly dreary day he had suddenly plucked me out of the office, laid on a limousine to the West End, ushered me to the best table in my favourite restaurant and poured me a glass of champagne. I couldn't help wondering if there was, perhaps, something he wanted to talk to me about.

'So, how's tricks?' he asked.

'Well,' I said, 'I was just wondering about this press business, the Palace, and control and censorship and all that.'

'Interesting,' he said. 'Do you think there should be control over what they say?'

'Yes, I do,' I said. 'They have been allowed to lie, and spread dirt and rumours far too long.'

'Steady on, old boy,' he said. 'This is the Royal Family you are talking about.'

'No, it isn't,' I said. 'It's the press.'

'Ah. When you said lies and rumours I thought you meant the stuff put out by the people at the Palace . . .'

I had no idea what he was talking about. But Adrian should know. It's no secret that he has been representing someone at the Palace for a long time. The only secret is exactly who it is.

'So, what's new, sunshine?' I said cheerily. 'Why so glum? Don't tell me you were mixed up in this British Airways palaver]'

This was a blow below the belt. I happened to know that in the early days of the BA vs Virgin Atlantic war, Adrian had been responsible for disguising teams of BA ticket salesmen as Jehovah's Witnesses. They had gone round knocking at the doors of known Virgin customers, and preached hell-fire sermons against Branson as the Antichrist. Apparently they had converted enough erstwhile Virgin passengers to start a new apostolic movement, The First Church of Christ on Stand-By.

'Worse, dear boy, worse. I have a new client about whom it is almost impossible to plant a kindly story. A great leader of men, a hero to his people, a businessman and negotiator sans pareil, and yet the press just doesn't want to know.'

Who could this be? I thought of all the candidates.

'Jacques Delors?' I hazarded.

'Would that it were,' he groaned. 'Would you believe - Saddam Hussein?'

'Good Lord] I take it you are being paid well?'

'Oh yes, the money's good. Or it would be. Unfortunately, I am being paid by result, and I haven't managed to plant a single nice thing about the man with any of my normal outlets. That's why I thought of you.'

'So what have you tried already?'

'Well, the Sun was quite interested in a story I suggested to them: 'Has Saddam got a toupee - Yes or No?' '

'Would Saddam see that as a nice story?'

'For the Guardian,' he continued, ignoring me, 'I offered to get Saddam to host one issue of their Notes and Queries feature - you know, all you ever wanted to know about the Gulf war, the other side of, etc. For the Radio Times I offered a feature from Saddam Hussein on 'My TV Dinner' . . .'

'I don't visualise Saddam Hussein watching much TV.'

'No, he doesn't. This was going to be an exclusive about what he eats as he broadcasts.'

'But none of these has been printed,' I said, rather meanly.

'No. That's where you come in. I thought you might pick up on these raids into Kuwait that Saddam has been doing. A profile of Saddam as the Cheeky Chappie. Saddam, the little guy against authority. Sort of an Arab Richard Branson. That's what I told him . . .'

'Hold on,' I said. 'You advised Saddam Hussein to stage these cheeky little raids for press coverage purposes?'

'Well, can you think of any other purpose they might have?' snapped Adrian. Then his mobile phone rang. He answered it. His frown faded.

'Yes, Your Majesty,' he said. He rose to his feet and stood to attention with his phone to his ear, ushering me away, out of sight and out of mind, as if our audience was at an end.