Twice in recent years, the makers of Who Do You Think You Are? have approached me to see if my ancestry might be sufficiently interesting for their programme. Both times, they thought it wasn't: a decision vindicated by the first 100 pages of this book.

I was born in 1947 and, as with most children of my generation, my parents made formal arrangements to see me five times a year. This might strike some readers as rather old-fashioned, but I believe children are now far too indulged by their parents, which is why so many go on to take drugs, become homosexualists and vote Labour.

At my school, I was distressed to find that mass was conducted in Latin. For classicists like myself, this was not a problem, but I strongly felt that ordinary people were being prevented from having the Mysteries of God revealed to them. Thus I wrote to the Pope and was extremely pleased that, in 1962 at the Second Vatican Council, it was announced that my recommendations had been adopted in full.

Having taken a first degree at Birmingham, I reapplied to Oxford, as I was certain it would be ideally suited to an ambition that exceeded my talent. My judgment was correct, for I emerged three years later having been unsuccessful in my attempts to become president of the Union. Though, for the record, many believed I was the victim of a scandalous miscarriage of justice within the electoral procedure, an outrage I have now entirely forgotten.

I do not propose to indulge people's gutter instincts for salacious gossip by revealing whether or not I held hands with my only boyfriend, Colin Maltby. Nor will I comment on him having been later heard to say: "I dodged a bullet there." Suffice to say that I am extremely happy to have remained single ever since, as it has allowed me to fully devote myself to serving God, the Conservative party and my cats.

It was incumbent on me to find work and for some years I toiled unhappily for Unilever, where I'm told my leaving speech is still regarded as one of the finest ever, before embarking on my political career. Having failed to ingratiate myself with the constituents of Burnley and Devonport – some people refuse to be helped, no matter what you do for them - I was eventually elected member for the safe seat of Maidstone.

I did not make an immediate impact at Westminster, as senior politicians were suspicious of talented newcomers who knew a great deal more than they did about everything and were not afraid to say so. Eventually my preferment could not be delayed, and I was happy to have a distinguished career as a junior minister at the Home Office during which I achieved very little. Losing the general election was a blow, but the real tragedy for the Conservative party came in 2001 when it emerged I had absolutely no support for my futile leadership bid. Many people – well, me – have since said I would have been a brilliant leader, but it is not for me to comment.

I have never been afraid to speak with the courage of my convictions, which is why, after the Church of England voted to allow women priests, I converted to Catholicism. Although I have always been very pro-women's rights – even for those with lesbian instincts, of which I am not one – it is a sin to go against the will of God. On a lighter note, I was later very fortunate to meet the Pope, who told me he had never previously met a person with such inner holiness.

After leaving parliament, many people thought I should have been elevated to the House of Lords, but for reasons best known to Mr Cameron that was not to be, and, as I am not one to hold a grudge, I have happily moved on. However, Mr Cameron did ask me to be his envoy to the Vatican, though this appointment clashed with Strictly Come Dancing. Faced with such a tough choice, I asked God to give me a sign. He did: he gave me a detached retina. Truly, He and I move in mysterious ways.

Digested read, digested: Strictly Self-Advancing.