Published: 15 July 2010

THOU art Peter and upon this rock I will build my church”. Without being blasphemous, I believe during one of his frequent attacks of rel­igious rapture, Tony Blair could have thus anointed Peter Mandelson. 

Mandelson’s indestruc­tibility is a rare example of inexplicable survival  in the swamp of West­minster. He lives a charmed life, feared by foes and courted by influence-seekers. The vultures circle all the time, yet Peter’s self-esteem and testosterone soar to ever-higher limits. 

If you want to know Peter, hold a mirror up to his grandfather Herbert Morrison and you see him. Morrison, became Clement Attlee’s deputy prime minister, Peter became Gordon Brown’s. Both had great affection for London – both meticulous organisers.  Both men courted and soothed the middle classes, while enjoying aristocratic-style weekends. This Morris­onian gene surfaced rapidly in Peter – he was a great partygoer. 

He tried to imitate his grandfather’s Dome of Discovery at the 1951 Festival of Britain by forcing a great £3billion expenditure on the Millennium Dome at Greenwich. 

He never hid his ambition. As far back as 1975, Peter said in my kitchen: “I want the highest political office in the land and I’ll get it.” 

His voice was very, very determined and profound. He was, when  I met him, cheerful, but with a steely inner conviction. But he had a personal style, which set him apart from his contemporaries.

Peter became the chairman of the British Youth Council and won Foreign Office approval. He went to the world youth festival in Cuba, allegedly Communist-organised. In a kindly spirit, he bought me back the symbol of the festival – a happy bear. 

It was darkly recalled he had been a very active member of the Young Communist League. His mother and father were not typical residents of Hampstead Garden Suburb. Their home was a place of warmth and affection and support. 

As an occasional companion, Peter was generous open and thoughtful. 

In his earlier days, he came regularly to our local pub, off the Edgware Road. He had the Denis Healey touch  of communicating with everyone in the bar. After closing time, many of the clientele in the bar, including aspiring lawyers, and journalists, would retire to my house to continue our revelry.

I noticed Peter began  to monopolise the telephone. The juggler had learned to play with many balls.

Then someone had the sense to make him Neil Kinnock’s mouthpiece. 

He arrived in the ramshackle HQ of the Labour Party with its antiquated office equipment and comatose officials. Harold Wilson had compared the Labour Party’s organisation to an outdated Penny Farthing bicycle. Peter eased the new leader into a more streamlined vehicle. 

His then partner, another Peter, had become father of a child, by a girl they shared a home with. The News of the World trumpeted “Kinnock’s main aide is gay”. He withstood very vicious homophobic comment. The little boy had the love of all three and one summer they brought him to see South Wales. Mandelson was quickly kicking a football around, completely at ease with a mob of very noisy children from my family. He could have been mistaken for a young father enjoying the game. 

In no time, he became Dorian Gray. It was the picture in the attic that changed and aged. His self-obsession within its steel shell made him remote.

Then there was the Peter who pleaded with myself, and my partner, to bring over cooking utensils for a dinner party. It was an enjoyable evening but Peter left early, on his way to an even bigger public audience – of the SDP, the right-wing faction in the Labour Party that broke away to form a new party. He tried to persuade me to join – a fact he denies vehemently. 

John Smith’s sudden death changed the course of the Labour Party. Peter’s influence, and skills and social clout spread like honey over the national papers. He had arrived at the centre of Labour’s organisation like his grandfather. Labour grandees now wore red roses in place of the Red Flag, which was stashed away in a cupboard. The world “old” became obsolete: everything was new. 

And New Labour was summer in Tuscany, personal trainers, vegetable diets, and only plain water – few cultural tastes, and an affective passion for the beautiful game. Peter stood for tailor-made clothes and became almost a rag trade model. 

Friends suggested I  had played Falstaff to his Prince Hal. But Falstaff was rejected when Hal became Henry V. 

Peter was shrewd enough to know that hub­ris is followed by nemesis. 

He is a shameless pagan. He wears no badge or pretends no innocence or stigmata, for his sexuality, vanity or his smile “like an open razor”. Unlike his contemporary Ken Livingstone (they both served on Lambeth bor­ough council) he premed­itates, while Livingstone grabs opportunistically at any  banner. Peter has steel balls, a killer instinct, shielding his natural affability. 

There is another Peter,  robotic, disdainful, haughty, a man who longed for the crown. It must be a bitter pill to see it about to be snatched away again. Peter is the Machiavelli without the Prince. As the hymn points out “time like an ever-rolling stream bears all its sons away”.

His arts and dark prac­tices, I hear, are not com­pletely polarised on either of the Miliband boy bands – both of whom, like him, seem convinced of the law of Divine Right. It will be interesting to see Peter’s next role.

• Peter Mandelson’s mem­oir The Third Man: Life at the Heart of New Labour is published this week by HarperPress, £25