The following story’s from the memoir of Harry Diamond, a former British reporter.
"The Prime Minister’s fly is open," I whisper to my companion as Winston Churchill passes us in the House of Commons corridors. "We should tell him."
"You tell him, you’re young and brash," says my friend. I pad quietly after the great man, humm, haw and cough until he eventually turns round to see what the entire row was about.
"Excuse me, sir. I hope you don’t mind me mentioning it… . but your fly is open."
I remember thinking rather irreverently that my suit’s in better condition than the Prime Minister’s, but this is a very special occasion for me. I had taken my best suit to London to create the right impression. This was at a time when I thought Members of Parliament were a superior form of homo sapiens.
Mr. Churchill stares at me, looks down, and says in that slow, commanding, slightly lisping voice that thrilled and inspired millions throughout the war, "My boy, there is no harm in leaving open the door of the cage when the bird is dead."
YOUR FLY’S OPEN PRIME MINISTER