Dawn breaks over the village of Celibici in southern Bosnia. (You can't miss it: its near the border with Montenegro.) A chill wind blows; somewhere a goat coughs. We are here as part of a NATO force (with a large contribution from the armed forces of Rutland, I am pleased to note) which is attempting to hunt down Paddy Ashplant. As happens with all dictators, Ashcan's hubris eventually brought him down. In his case his fatal mistake was the publication of a second volume of his diaries. This unhappy tome made it clear to his erstwhile admirers that the fellow had spent the past few years trying to arrange a coalition or even merger with Tony Blair and his New Party. In short, Asphalt was like little Steel with a better taste in shirts. This morning the search proves unfruitful. There is a moment's excitement when an old woman in a head scarf says "Frankly" and "Let me help you, Sue", but she scuttles off before we can question her. Nevertheless, like those jolly Mounties, we shall get our man.
Did you stay up to watch the final of the women's curling? How exciting it was! Here in Rutland the sport is quite the latest thing and the entire population wants to play: as one strolls along the shores of Rutland Water, one sees innumerable games taking place. There is a slight impediment to the spread of this Caledonian pastime in these parts: the benign climate of our little country means that one rarely finds ice at this time of year. At first we experimented with a slightly lighter grade of granite, but this proved to be of only limited benefit. Then some bright fellow hit upon the idea of using the Great Seal of Rutland, and things looked up. Not only is it a keen competitor, but it is happy dive to retrieve the stones and will even balance a ball upon its nose while playing a tune on a row of motor horns to amuse spectators if their enthusiasm should lag.
I read that Kennedy has named the day for the referendum on the Euro. Tired of waiting for the Government to act, he has announced that on 5 June all Liberal Democrats will turn out to vote. And quite right too. We don't want to be left waiting at the bus stop while everyone else is riding on the hovercraft, do we? It puts me in mind of the time when, equally frustrated with the Conservatives' unwillingness to join the Common Market, a few of us Liberals decided we would wait no longer and joined the blessed thing ourselves. We went over to Strasbourg and had a simply splendid dinner. Unfortunately, events did not unfold so swimmingly after that. I received a letter telling me that my moustache contravened Directive 12876/449/a(iii) and would have to be shaved off. Well I was not having any of that, so I told them they could put their Directive where the monkey put the nuts. Funny the things that one remembers.
Have you read of the New Party's plans to have a satellite in the sky spying on everyone's motor? It smacks too much of Big Brother to me, and no one wants a Welsh hairdresser telling him what to do. Nevertheless, traffic congestion is a serious problem in this modern world so many of us live in, and here in Rutland we have introduced a novel way of combating it. On busy summer afternoons when trippers flock to our many attractions or there is a curling tournament on, I will fly above the roads in an airship or hot air balloon directing traffic with a loud hailer. You know the sort of thing: "You there in the Ford, turn left," "There's a haywain coming the other way, pull in at once," "Tell you children to sit up straight and take those ridiculous baseball caps off."
It is fashionable, I know, to laugh at President George W. Bunkport Jnr, but I think he may be on to something when he talks about the evil Islamic/Communist axis. For these two creeds have long been close bedfellows. Trotsky was a practising Muslim, the Ayatollah Khomeni spent several years as a shop steward in the Clydeside shipyards and Marx used to hire his beards from a mosque in Muswell Hill. (When he was short of money he would pawn them, which got him in no end of trouble. ("I'll give you 'opium of the people': we want our beard back.") Despite my close acquaintance with the most informed circles, I cannot say exactly what Bunkport will do about this worrying coalition, but I foresee that it will be expensive, involve the deaths of lots of innocent people and that Mr Blair will support it.
To Kensal Green for a day's hunting. Nowadays Reynard is largely an urban resident, so naturally those who enjoy the hunt (one cannot curl all the time) have followed him into the city. Thus today I am not out with the Fernie or the Quorn, but with the Bakerloo. I experience rather a heavy fall taking the ticket barriers at South Kenton, but have an enjoyable day fortified by the occasional nip from my flask or chocolate bar from one of those ingenious machines on the platform. Of course, the fox is a cunning fellow and is quite capable of running up a down escalator or jumping off a train just as the doors are closing. As to those who think hunting cruel: I am afraid that they simply fail to understand the urban way of life.
To St Asquith's to see what the Revd Hughes has cooked up for us this morning. He preaches a sermon on Matthew, 25, 34-36: "Then shall the King say unto them on his right hand, Come, ye blessed of my Father, inherit the kingdom prepared for you from the foundation of the world: for I was ahungered, and ye gave me meat: I was thirsty, and ye gave me drink: I was a stranger, and ye took me in: naked, and ye clothed me: I was sick, and ye visited me: I was in prison, and ye telephoned South Wales Police to see how the enquiries were progressing." I think that is what Christianity is all about, don't you?
Lord Bonkers was Liberal MP for Rutland South-West 1906-10