In the two hours we spent together, I experienced at first-hand her charisma and much-lauded ability to relate to people with whom she had little or nothing in common.
She was feisty, warm and hilariously indiscreet, and while watching Julie Walters' extraordinary portrayal of her on Channel 4 last week it was deeply satisfying to hear her use the same two words to Peter Mandelson's face as Mo had used to describe him to me.
One of her closest friends was former Labour MP, Clare Short, who delivered the sort of rambunctious performance in front of the Chilcot Inquiry this week, of which Mo would have undoubtedly approved.
It was a combination of honesty laced with an infusion of bile and a dash of revenge.
Unsurprisingly, it elicited prolonged applause from the audience, who had been denied such qualities for weeks.
After the hours of sophistry they had been subjected to by Tony Blair, Alastair Campbell and Lord Goldsmith, Ms Short came as a blessed relief.
She was a woman on a mission; someone who had been made to wait a long time to have her say – and she intended to make the most of it.
Such was the contempt which dripped from her lips every time she mentioned 'Blair' and 'Bush,' you half expected her to drag out a hankie at regular intervals and wipe her mouth.
With all personal ambition spent and no back to protect, she was the loosest of loose cannons. One suspects our former leader watched in silent anguish with his hands over his face.
Her language was redolent of the public bar rather than an official inquiry, and words like 'chaotic,' 'crazy,' 'dysfunctional,' 'mad' and 'hopeless' came pouring out.
She sighed, smiled and rolled her eyes to make a point, and we can only hope the melodrama did not detract from the content, and lead Chilcot and his chums to take her revelations any less seriously.
If you sweep aside all the personal spite and the playing to the gallery, you are left with a devastating indictment of a prime ministerial clique prepared to enter an illegal war at any price.


Every television programme – no matter how revered or mediocre – is a collaborative project.
Nowadays, however, we are denied an opportunity to discover who did what because of the high-handed attitude of directors who treat the closing credits (and the viewers) with contempt.
The details either skid horizontally across the bottom of the screen at a speed which renders them unreadable, or they are squashed into unintelligible insignificance by details of the next programme on the schedule.
Is it too much to ask that television allows one programme to finish completely before crashing in with a plug for the next one?