Abraham Lincoln? David Lloyd George? Winston Churchill? Who in the pantheon of Gove heroes should take pride of place?

This weekend I have had to reshuffle the Cabinet of all-time greats to make way for a new hero — a man who has captured my heart like few others. Fred Mulley. Baron Mulley of Manor Park in the city of Sheffield, as he became, was a quiet toiler in the Sixties and Seventies Labour Cabinets of Harold Wilson and Jim Callaghan. He served as a minister in aviation, transport and education before becoming Defence Secretary. He was, by all accounts, a diligent fighter for the Armed Forces in Whitehall.

But he enjoys a sliver of posthumous celebrity not for his strenuous efforts on their behalf but for a momentary surrender to the joys of sleep. During a Royal Jubilee RAF flypast. While sitting next to the Queen. And in front of a squadron of photographers.

Fred’s forty winks were caught on camera and “a Fred Mulley” became service slang for any unlicensed slumber while on exercise. I feel for the poor man. Because one of the aspects of hitting 40 for which no one prepares you is that your body, like a nuclear power station operating at the margins of safety, develops an override mechanism that simply shuts all systems down at critical moments. Usually after lunch.

There are many aspects of ageing for which I was not properly prepared. The dramatic acceleration in aural and nasal hair growth. The increasing viciousness of hangovers. A developing fondness for Ken Bruce. But perhaps the cruellest trick is the growing realisation that, like a Nineties Nokia, our batteries run down incredibly quickly so that, however good we look in the morning, we’ve gone phut by the afternoon.

This weekend I was at the Times Cheltenham Literature Festival and was held rapt all morning by a variety of brilliant speakers. After lunch (quiche and apple juice since you ask) I took my family to hear a rather brilliant children’s author read. While my children sat spellbound, I felt myself hypnotised by the combination of his mellow voice, and the inevitable association between children’s books and bedtime.

I’m not quite sure how many people heard me snoring. Most were polite enough not to mention it. But the real shame for me was not that this was an isolated incident but that it was simply confirmation of the new pattern of my life.

The Stasi used to break into dissidents’ homes at 4am because that was when the body is at a uniquely low ebb and it is difficult to swim back to full consciousness. For me the window is slightly wider. From about noon until 7am the next day. French politicians used to hire hotel rooms by the hour in the afternoon to entertain their secretaries. I’m tempted to see if Premier Inns will offer me a similar deal — so I can get to know the backs of my eyelids even better.

So I worship Fred much as some might venerate Oscar Wilde — yes, he faced public calumny but he helped to break taboos, and made life easier for those who followed after. All those of us who know that one day, sooner or later, we will be caught, eyes heavy, head lolling, breathing unevenly, while we try to catch up on our sleep rations can give silent thanks to Fred for being the trailblazer. The man of our dreams.

Crumple zone

One of the many benefits of literary festivals is the spirit of glorious and relaxed openness that generates a rich variety of answers from figures in the public eye to one of the most troubling questions of our time — what is the ideal form of sports jacket that can bridge most social occasions?

Judging purely on numbers the answer would seem to be some sort of cotton canvas. But those literati who cut the most dash were all in black corduroy — the cord giving off a whiff of Ivy League academia and the blackness hinting at the sophistication of velvet.

Definitely not cutting the mustard was the linen number I had on. Linen has many advantages. But it’s not a fabric designed to be slept in.

Remembrance of books past

Literary festivals are, in their exceptionally decorous way, exercises in conspicuous consumption. Just as fashion editors have to ensure they are seen in the front row of Paris shows wearing the appropriate labels, so festivalgoers have to have the latest must-read nestling under their arm. But, in a spirit of gloriously counter-intuitive courage, the novelist Susan Hill has launched a book this festival week that makes the case for abstinence from new book-buying.

Howard’s End Is On The Landing is a totally beguiling, utterly persuasive, argument for reimmersing yourself in literature’s past. Like the marvellous magazine Slightly Foxed, it reminds you of the overlooked treasures we miss in the chase for novelty. Hill’s work is part memoir, part outpouring of affection for these she has loved and, en route, she provides us with a reading list the equal of any degree course’s. And in the spirit of thrift she embodies, all for just £12.99.

Michael Gove is Conservative MP for Surrey Heath

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