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Currie on cruising

Since 1994, cruising the world, giving talks on her life in politics, has become Edwina Currie’s great love. Here, she recalls the best moments of her sailing career to date

It all started in 1994. I was a candidate for the European elections with two in-trays: one for if I won, and the other in case I didn’t. My side got hammered and those ambitions vanished. On top of the second pile was an invitation to speak on the QE2, first class, all found. As a Liverpool girl, the great liners were the stuff of my childhood – glamorous and exciting – and they still are. So I accepted and, as we sailed into New York past the Statue of Liberty, life outside politics took on a rosy hue.

Don’t ask how many cruises I’ve been on – it must be 40 or more, mostly with Cunard, P&O, Saga, Fred Olsen and Regent. The longest trip was three weeks, the shortest only a few days. From Alaska to Argentina, from Japan to Jamaica, from Martinique to Malta, I love the lot, although my favourite is the South Pacific. In return, I talk, to a captive audience. What could be better?

We do get some rum questions. “Do you sleep on the ship?” has been asked, several days out of port. One lady thought dozens of chickens should be brought onboard to ensure they were fresh and free-range (in Nelson’s day, they were). One cruise director was asked where all the lovely fresh bread and cakes came from – were they baked onboard? He explained mischievously that they arrived by helicopter at 5am each day and were dropped into a net over the swimming pool, and that’s why they’re called bridge rolls. Sure enough, at dawn, he was woken by the angry Captain. “There are two elderly passengers on deck, all bundled up in the cold, saying they’re waiting for the bread delivery…”

The topics I speak on cover my political days; the title going down best at the moment is: ‘Lies, damn lies and politicians: why do they tell lies?’ And I tell my audience why I could never watch TV’s Yes, Minister! (I recognised some of the stories from my own office), and what it was like working for Margaret Thatcher.

I never need to make anything up, for the truth is often both hilarious and mad.

Questions afterwards keep me on my toes. As one cruise director remarked, “The British tend to bring their brains onboard.” That’s one hazard: there’s always somebody in the audience, especially on a big ship, who knows the truth. I had an argument with a retired gentleman from the BBC over whether Churchill’s wartime speeches, which you can hear on tape, were by him or by the actor Norman Shelley. It turned out we were both right. The Commons was not broadcast in those days, so Churchill would hand over his notes after speaking and the actor would record them for dissemination to the world. After the war, Churchill returned to the studio and re-recorded them: my informant was there as he did them.

My husband since 2001, John Jones, was a senior detective in the Met, so he does talks, too: ‘The Rookie Cop’ (on the beat on Liverpool docks in the 1960s, when he brought the port to a standstill), ‘The Real Life on Mars’ (policing in the 1970s), ‘The Sweeney’ (which he served in for eight years) and so on.

I love the first afternoon onboard, as I unpack, thinking how many fascinating places we will visit before I have to pack again. Then we walk round the ship to get our bearings, finding where to eat, where to meet up for a drink and where we will be speaking, and then I go to find the gym. It may seem weird to spend any time on board puffing and sweaty, but for me it’s great being able to tumble out of bed in the morning and head straight to the exercise bike; soon I’m wide awake and, after a shower, I’m a human being again.

Over the years we’ve acted as escorts on many excursions, especially when we’re among younger people. In Ephesus, Turkey, there was a full-scale drama when one old gent disappeared among the ruins. The police were involved, with quite a hunt on, until we discovered that he’d left the party and taken a taxi back without telling anyone.

Mostly, however, older passengers are both intrepid and reliable. In Norway, near Flåm, I fretted about one ancient chap who proposed to do a 10km downhill hike in sandals and looked a bit wobbly.

I needn’t have worried; though he was 88, he just kept plodding on as he told me the remarkable tale of helping to set up the NHS in 1948. I was almost sorry when we got to the bottom.

Before JJ came along, I would take my 89-year-old widowed mother with me. She used to be pursued slowly round the decks by a gentleman admirer, who would stand at our table to chat. “Mum, he’s sweet – why don’t you encourage him a bit?” I asked. “Because he’s too old for me,” she replied. “He’s 90. And I’ve had enough of washing a man’s socks. No thanks.”

We were on Saga Rose’s last cruise in December, a sad event, then we went straight to the Queen Mary 2 out of New York for Christmas. Then we’re looking forward to more in 2010. As long as the world turns, we will be on the high seas. And loving every minute.

For more, call 0800 916 3233, visit www.cruisethomascook.com, your local Thomas Cook or Going Places strore, or see Thomas Cook TV, Sky channel 655

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