My left-wing pedigree runs deep. As a teenage activist in the early 1980s I joined every cause and every march of the day, from anti-racism and CND to anti-Apartheid and Cuba solidarity.

I read Marx and Engels, Lenin and Trotsky, and I joined one of the proliferation of far-left groups of the day. Like many of my comrades, I drifted away from the struggle after Margaret Thatcher’s defeat of the miners, but I retained my core identity as a leftie.

Until, that is, decades later, when a stripper rocked my world.

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