The National‑Insurance Card Trap — the Aristocrat and the Vulnerable Stable‑Hand
Norman Josiffe was born in 1940. He never knew his biological father. His mother had become pregnant accidentally; under Catholic teaching at the time, abortion was not an option, so Norman was brought into the world.
His childhood was lonely and neglected. His father was absent, his mother gave him little care, and relatives treated him as an unwanted burden. He struggled to connect with people, but found comfort around animals, especially horses.
At fifteen, Norman begged his mother for a pony. She refused flat‑out. Desperate, he adopted a disabled pony from an animal‑welfare charity. Unable to afford feed, he stole hay from neighbours. In 1956, he ended up before a juvenile court.
Fortunately, the presiding judge recognised the boy’s desperation. He handed down a lenient sentence and arranged for Norman to attend an equestrian school. The school offered no formal qualifications, however. When his training finished, good jobs were hard to come by. Unwilling to return to his unhappy family home, Norman drifted, until he found work in Vater’s stable. His terms were simple: shelter, food, and a maintained national‑insurance card. He needed no salary.
When Vater brandished Thorpe’s explosive postcard, Norman glanced at the House‑of‑Commons letterhead and muttered that its writer must be an important man. He did not understand the danger attached to the note.
Soon afterwards, Thorpe drove out to stay overnight at Vater’s villa. The next morning, he spotted Norman working in the stable. The young man’s gentle, good‑looking appearance caught Thorpe’s attention at once. He walked over and struck up conversation, pretending deep expertise in horses, even though he knew very little about them.
Sensing that Vater’s finances were shaky, Thorpe handed Norman his visiting‑card. “If you ever fall out with Vater or run into real trouble, you can get in touch with me.”
Norman accepted the card without much thought. He had no idea how soon he would be forced to use it.
Disaster struck at a race‑meeting. A horse panicked and bolted, causing chaos. Vater flew into a rage and blamed Norman for the incident. Humiliated, Norman quit on the spot.
He returned to the villa to collect his belongings. There he found the letter‑box crammed full of envelopes. Every bill was addressed to him.
Vater had kept hold of Norman’s national‑insurance card. Using it, he had rented the villa, taken out loans to buy cars and race‑horses. All the debts for his luxurious lifestyle sat legally in Norman’s name. In the 1960s, loans required no facial verification; possession of someone’s national‑insurance number was enough to open credit.
Shaken and helpless, Norman remembered Thorpe’s card — and also remembered the incriminatory postcard he had seen. He stole the postcard, grabbed his luggage, and fled the estate. He sat weeping on the steps of a church. With nowhere else to turn, he decided to travel to London and ask Jeremy Thorpe for help.
On 8 November 1961, Norman arrived at the House of Commons and asked to see Thorpe. When Thorpe heard who was waiting, he hurried out to greet him.
Norman poured out the whole terrible story: fraud, stolen identity, crushing debt. His request was straightforward: he wanted Thorpe to go to Vater and get his national‑insurance card back. He was frightened of Vater and dared not confront the man himself.
Thorpe understood exactly what Norman wanted. But two considerations held him back. First, he wanted nothing further to do with the fraudulent Vater. Second, merely recovering the card would not create a deep enough personal obligation over Norman.
Thorpe therefore deliberately misinterpreted the request. He telephoned his secretary and told her to go to the National‑Insurance Office and apply for a replacement card on Norman’s behalf. Norman was overwhelmed with gratitude; a Member of Parliament was intervening directly for him.
When Thorpe learned Norman had nowhere to sleep, he invited him to stay at his mother’s house in Surrey, explaining he would fly to Malta the next day and they could discuss resolving the debts along the way. With no other options open, Norman agreed.
Thorpe’s mother was far less welcoming than her son had suggested. She gave Norman a guest‑room but kept contact to a minimum. That night, Thorpe knocked repeatedly at Norman’s bedroom door. The two men became sexually intimate. For Norman the experience was confusing. He had not previously identified as gay. Feelings of gratitude, admiration for Thorpe’s status, and fear all tangled together, and he did not resist.
Before departing for Malta, Thorpe gave Norman ten pounds to rent accommodation. Alone in his new room, Norman thought through his position. He did not entirely reject the arrangement. Originally he had hoped to use the stolen postcard to secure assistance. Now Thorpe had helped him, but the price had become Norman himself. The practical outcome felt strangely similar.
When Thorpe returned from Malta two weeks later, their affair resumed. Thorpe bought Norman new sets of clothes. For a short while, the arrangement seemed stable.
In early 1962, Norman became entangled in a minor legal scrape. Thorpe smoothed the problem over, but Norman was badly shaken. He retreated to the countryside and wrote to Thorpe saying he hoped to find work and eventually travel to France to train in dressage.
Thorpe read the letter with satisfaction. If Norman became self‑supporting, Thorpe would no longer need to fund him. On 13 February 1962, Thorpe wrote back on official House‑of‑Commons stationery:
“Dear Norman, I am so glad to hear your spirits are lifting. You are doing splendidly. Bunnies can (and will) go to France. With love, Jeremy. Thinking of you.”
This letter contained two catastrophic mistakes. The pet‑name “Bunnies” was wildly intimate for two ordinary men. Worse still, Thorpe mis‑dated the letter: he wrote 1961 instead of 1962. Under British law, Norman had still been under‑age in 1961.
Most ironic of all: despite promising a replacement national‑insurance card, Thorpe had done nothing about it. He only remembered the document when Norman was ready to seek employment. Using his parliamentary influence, Thorpe ordered a replacement — and instructed officials to send the card to himself, not to Norman.
More misfortune descended on Norman. His pet dog bit a neighbour and was shot by the landlord. Grief‑stricken, Norman wrote asking Thorpe to send photographs of the dog so he could keep them as mementoes. Thorpe was busy campaigning and replied with cold dismissiveness.
That dismissive reply wounded Norman deeply. The couple began quarrelling frequently. Norman made several suicidal threats. On 18 December 1962, they had a ferocious row. Norman stormed out into the night. Distraught, he telephoned a friend and ranted that Thorpe had deceived him; in his rage he threatened to kill Thorpe and then himself.
Alarmed, the friend called the police. Officers found Norman. At the police station, he told the complete story of his relationship with Thorpe and showed officers their correspondence. Police were stunned. To distance themselves from the politically‑sensitive mess, they copied all letters and passed the file to MI5. MI5 assessed the material and concluded the private homosexual affair posed no national‑security risk. They sealed the archive away.
The episode appeared closed. Early in 1963, Norman found work at an equestrian school in Northern Ireland. Only when he arrived for induction did he realise the terrible truth: his national‑insurance card was still being held by Jeremy Thorpe.
📚 The Thorpe Affair: Britain’s Most Scandalous Political Soap‑Opera
- 1. The Rainy‑Night Moor Shooting and an Ambitious Aristocrat’s Rise
- 2. The National‑Insurance Card Trap — the Aristocrat and the Vulnerable Stable‑Hand (Current)
- 3. The Impossible Dead‑End — Endless Harassment and the Birth of a Murder Plot
- 4. Hired Killers, the Dog Murder, Public Outcry and the Final Verdict
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