Whenever I met Mohamed Al Fayed – it was always complete madness

While Mohamed Al Fayed spent his final years in a dark fog of dementia, his life was defined by madness and often jaw-dropping excess.

One of the many memorable encounters I had with him involved Viagra, deer testicles, teddy bears and the Sultan of Brunei. At that stage I was editor of the London Evening Standard and had started the “Dispossessed” campaign – starting a charity to help the least fortunate in the capital.

It became the most successful newspaper campaign to raise funds outside of times of national crisis or natural disaster. I had him in my sights to make a donation as a prominent stakeholder in London, as the owner of Harrods and Fulham Football Club.

In the Georgian restaurant on the third floor of Harrods, he was sitting with a small man with a beard. “Please say hello to the Sultan of Brunei,” he said. The potentate stayed all of three minutes before I was left with the “Harrods Pharaoh” (as he was dubbed in the press).

He agreed to a substantial sum as a charitable donation – but then he made an offer I had to refuse. The cash for questions bribery case still hung in the air, where he had given MPs envelopes full of cash for favours. He alarmingly said he wanted to give me a present. How many children did I have? He summoned the head waiter to get Harrods Paddington bears. And Harrods bottles of whisky. I explained it was very kind but inappropriate.

He then sat closer and my jaw dropped as he boasted: “You know I have a very big dick!” A small pill box was pulled out of his jacket pocket. He opened it and said: “Please take.” In case I had not got the complete picture, he added: “Viagra. Marvellous. Would you like?”

In the time-honoured tradition of many a reporter in embarrassing circumstances, I got ready to take my leave. But before I headed for the escalators he relented and said he would then only give me a very humble and simple gift. He whispered to the head waiter who then disappeared. A green plastic Harrods bag was then produced, and he insisted I take it and eat what was inside.

Before I could ask, he explained it was testicles (raw and uncooked) from a stag shot on his estate in the Scottish Highlands. I made my apologies and left. No whisky or bears, but from sheer surprise I found myself clutching a bag containing two bloody balls.

I had one final meeting with Al Fayed, again in the Georgian restaurant of Harrods, which was ostensibly about the Standard doing some business with Harrods but was actually mostly about his paranoia about being listened to by intelligence agents.

I remember how he thought MI6 had murdered Princess Diana on the orders of Prince Philip to the British secret service. All more bonkers than Bond. He showed me chain-steel curtains that covered the outside window in his office. He insisted on talking confidentially there, as it was “the only secure place”. I was offered a gun to shoot rays. He explained that rays were sent by satellite to tape him. And so we engaged in this crazy chat, his energy high-octane and his humour zany (or perhaps more on the side of insane).

At my home the next day the doorbell rang, and a man said he was here to install steel curtains. Another decline of a kind offer. There were acts of great kindness, and yet there were also bursts of anger and vindictiveness, as well as shocking rumours of secret security cameras. Likewise, guards in Harrods used to be as invasive and sinister as the Stasi in its heyday, with the information they gathered used for his personal gain and delectation.

Luckily for me, his memory was not infallible. Unbeknownst to him our first encounter was actually in the 1980s, when I was a reporter for the Sunday Times and he reacted with fury over a story I had written.

He had objected to an article about the Duke of Windsor’s Paris home, which he had bought and then redecorated. A sweet, elderly National Trust adviser wrote a report suggesting he was vandalising this historic property by choosing inappropriately garish colours to paint the walls. He called the deputy editor and demanded I be fired. I was then summoned by the editor Andrew Neil, who stood by me after checking my sources and facts.

Fayed then went to Rupert Murdoch, who also backed his journalists despite threats of a massive withdrawal of advertising. It caused him to withdraw five million pounds of Harrods advertising in a fit of pique. He had used bluster and bullying, but his bluff was called.

As for his balls and Egyptian eccentricities, they remain for me unforgettable.