My duties as Ambassador take me to Greenwich. Would that they did not! It is terrible to behold the chain gangs of unmarried mothers labouring to erect the Temple of a Thousand Years of Newness on a derelict site which once held a Bakelite factory that supplied the needs of half the Empire. The works are superintended by one Mandelson, who prowls about like a panther in carpet slippers. Making the effort to be sociable, I walk up to him and say "I suppose you'll be topping the whole thing off with a giant statue of young Blair." He smiles mysteriously and replies "Oh yes, there'll be a statue on top all right," before returning his attention to his mobile telephone apparatus.
I see that leading members of what we must learn to call "the fox community" have been in negotiation with the New Party with the aim of securing the abolition of hunting with hounds. (Before I receive another of those letters from Old Farmer Opik, let me emphasise that I am merely repeating what I read in my newspaper.) I have to say that the foxes may soon come to regret their decision. They will learn that rights go hand in hand with responsibilities. Foxes will be forced into poorly paid training schemes. Their earths will be inspected, and league tables will be published. Their cubs will be tested and those who fail to come up to the \par mark will be taken into Care. Speaking for myself, I should rather take my chances across open country with a pack of hounds than risk having my way of life torn apart by ten couple of assorted professionals.
My oldest friends will know that I have always had something of a weakness for the practical joke. I still chuckle at the time back in 1974 that I telephoned Jeremy Thorpe and persuaded him that I was Edward Heath. He was off to Downing Street to accept the Home Secretaryship before I had replaced the receiver. Nevertheless, I find myself obliged to given some of our younger members a wigging when I hear what they have been getting up to. They have adopted the cruel trick of creeping up behind Jack Straw and bawling "Michael Howard" in his ear. The poor fellow starts quaking, shrieks "I'm tough, I really am" and then rushes off to brief the Daily Mail to announce a some misbegotten new scheme. It stings the poor taxpayer for a couple of million every time it happens and must cease at once.
As one who sat on our benches in 1906, I feel that I speak with more than my usual authority when I emphasise the advantages of having a large group of one's fellows around one in the House. Since the election, any of our people getting up on his, or indeed her, hind legs has done so to the accompaniment of murmurs of "Slay 'em, Five Brains" or "Attaboy, Bollard". Quite an impressive bunch, our new crew in the Lower House. Take Michael Moore, for instance, who - to general rejoicing - has replaced Sir David Steel as member for Peebles or some such place. Standing something over seven feet in his stockinged feet and speaking with the distinctive burr of the Scottish Borders, he is widely thought to be the happy result of a brief romance between the rugger commentator Mr Bill McLaren and a lock forward from a visiting New Zealand ladies team. Steel, incidentally, as a new boy, is now my fag in the Lords.
Lunch with Robin Cook, a man with the permanent appearance of George Bernard Shaw after a long hike across rough country and one of the more decent types in the New Party. I point out to him that, now that she has regained her independence, Rutland will need to arm herself. He asks if we intend to use them for external aggression. I reply that, though manuscripts in my library clearly indicate that several parishes currently in Lincolnshire were once part of Rutland, we intend to pursue their restoration by peaceful persuasion. "Internal repression?" "Certainly not," I return hotly. "Of course, there remains the problem of the minorities from Leicestershire settled by our erstwhile occupiers - I abhor racism quite as much as you do, Robin, but don't you feel that they are not quite as clean as we Rutlanders? - but, again, we have no intention of employing aggressive means." The meal ends amicably with Cook agreeing that the United Kingdom will sell Rutland as many arms as we like as long as we promise never to use them. He does become flustered when I make to pick up the bill, though.
One of the disadvantages of being Rutland's Ambassador to the Court of St James's is that it is impossible altogether to avoid the British Royal Family - though I do generally manage to position myself behind one of the larger footmen. What a shower they are! The heir organises his mistress's fiftieth birthday party while his former wife performs for the photographers of the Press like a gibbon with an outside chance of a medal on the parallel bars. One does here the occasional dark rumour that young Prince Harry is not the heir's son at all. The correct course of action is clear. Place the lad upon the Throne at once. If he is not related to the dreadful Windsor family there is some chance of his turning out to be a decent human being.
So a busy week ends. I sit in my library sighing over the sinfulness of the world. Sometimes I wonder if al my efforts are worth the meagre rewards they bring. And yet one small light shines at the end of this very channel tunnel of despair. Tomorrow I shall be back in the Lords and I shall be able to pass the time roasting Steel over an open fire.
Lord Bonkers was Liberal MP for Rutland South-West 1906-10