Last time my diary appeared – just between ourselves, gentle reader, don't you think it should come out a little more often? – I invited my loyal readers to contact me by the electric e-mail at bonkers.hall@btinternet.com. This morning brings the first such communication. A Mr N.A. from the County Borough of Southport, on behalf of a local resident, asks about the correct dress to wear for an introduction ceremony to the House of Lords. His fellow Southportian favours "a little off-the-shoulder diamante number", whereas the aforementioned N.A. has been told that a dead animal (namely a stoat) is de rigueur. But how, he asks, does one find a stoat?
I was faced with just this problem in the 1940s when a friend wished to take his seat but did not have a thing to wear. As any country lad knows, stoats cannot be shot or trapped but must be charmed, so I invited the most charming fellow I knew – David Niven – for an afternoon at Braunton Burrows in North Devon. He soon gathered about him a rapt audience of a dozen stoats, which I quickly swept up in a sack and took to my friend's outfitters. The coast around Southport is not so very different, give or take the odd flock of wheways or hamwees, and I am sure a similar approach will bear rich dividends.
To a castle in the surprisingly mountainous region between Oxford and Abingdon to visit Evan Harris. The approach to this fastness proves a long climb and the local peasantry surly and uncommunicative. When the drawbridge is lowered, I am greeted by a chap with a bolt through his neck. He says: "The Herr Doctor is in his laboratory." "You mean he is otherwise engaged?" I return, but the fellow does not smile. When I find Harris he is surrounded by test tubes, Bunsen burners and bubbling retorts. "Zis von is intersesting, it has two heads," he says, pointing to a pink blob growing on agar jelly. Already I am feeling a little queasy, and when I come across what appears to be a cross between a duck and a rabbit, I make my excuses and leave. As a genetically modified tomato remarked to me the other day, you can take this science business too far.
I spend the morning in the grounds of the Hall, practising the speech I intend to give in the pornography debate at Bournemouth. Many years ago I had an amphitheatre constructed where plays can be performed and where I can regale my tenants with extracts from my published memoirs. These latter events are always popular, particularly when rents are about to fall due. Today I choose to perform without an audience, and my address begins as follows: "Fellow Liberals, have you seen this? And this? And, er, these? Oh dear, I am sorry, this one appears to be the wrong way up. Or perhaps not. Be that as it may, I was able to obtain these from the moving Interweb in a matter of minutes. From, as it happens www.bonkers.hall.rut/big_ones. All major credit cards accepted." I think that put it rather well, don't you?
We gather by the shores of Rutland Water for our annual regatta. At first things go well: David Rendell wins the sculls and Ruttie, my old friend the Rutland Water Monster, puts up a new national record for the 220 yards breaststroke. Just as the over-70s water polo team is about to take to the water, a ship flying the skull-and-crossbones hoves into view. "It is Black Peter," shrieks the crowd and they all run for home and bar their shutters. Yes, it is sad but true, since his defeat on the Isle of White Peter Brand has turned to piracy and made a rich living from shipping in the English Channel. Perhaps he bears a grudge for being ejected from Cowes? Now he has appeared nearer home. The Royal Rutland Naval Reserve soon puts to sea, but the fellow gets clean away.
Another e-mail reaches me, this time from Lord S. of A. (AKA Sir D. S.). He enquires as to the reasons for my longevity and suggests that the local water should be bottled and sold. Funnily enough, this month has seen the launch of Bonkers Spa Mineral Water™. My advisers tell me that organic products are popular at the moment, which is felicitous as the water contains a high percentage of organic matter. All in all, it is a splendid product. Do not take just my word for it: only this morning a Well-Behaved Orphan said to me: "I would much rather have a glass of Bonkers Spa Mineral Water™ than Coca-Cola. (Will you let me out now please?)"
People talk a lot about Mark Oaten, don't they? You hear them saying "Mark Oaten is a rising star" or "He's a rising star, that Mark Oaten" all the time. Complete strangers will approach one in Oakham High Street and spontaneously say: "Last night my wife and I compiled a list of rising stars, and we should like to take this opportunity, my lord, of assuring you that the name of Mark Oaten featured prominently upon it. No list of rising stars would be complete without that young man's presence, I can assure you. And our neighbours heartily concur." Only this morning I noticed that the Prince of Wales (big ears, talks to sycamores, you know the fellow) is selling Oaten biscuits in an attempt to hitch his carriage to this particular rising star. More to the point, it is impossible to open the Manchester Guardian these days without a) a stiff measure of Auld Johnston and b) seeing the aforesaid Member for Winchester referred to as "a rising star" at least seven times. The only consolation is that the latest calculations from the Department of Hard Sums at the University of Rutland at Belvoir suggest that if Oaten's star rises any more he will collide with that rogue asteroid Öpik is always banging on about, and I am sure that saving the planet will do our poll ratings no end of good.
To St Asquith's where the Revd Hughes takes as his text 2 Timothy, chapter 3, verses 1-4:
"This know also, that in the last days perilous times shall come. For men shall be lovers of their own selves, covetous, boasters, proud, blasphemers, disobedient to parents, unthankful, unholy, Without natural affection, trucebreakers, false accusers, incontinent, fierce, despisers of those that are good, Traitors, heady, highminded, lovers of pleasures more than lovers of God."
I think this a very good description of a Liberal Democrat Conference, don't you?
Lord Bonkers was Liberal MP for Rutland South-West 1906-10