Another day dawns on this desolate shore. I sit huddled in the shelter of my picnic basketwondering when I shall be forced to weaken and break our boycott by consuming , the selection of French food and wine it contains. How could it have happened? Three times I checked my train in the new timetable I bought from Menzies Campbell's kiosk: the 1104 from Glasgow Queen Street to Bonkers Halt, calling at Bridge of Orchy, Craven Arms and Luxulyan, and arriving at 1107. Instead I found myself dumped somewhere in the far west of Scotland with no prospect of escape. If Andrew Ellis had been at the Conference, it could never have happened.
Perhaps it is a judgement. Perhaps I am being punished for stealing away from the Conference one afternoon to watch Braveheart. And yet it seemed an eminently Liberal film, telling as it did the story of our own Jim Wallace. Who could forget his defiant speech on the eve of the battle with Labour? the words "All right, anything you say, Mr Robertson" ring down the centuries. Nor, equally, shall I easily forget the scene where, at the eleventh hour, the Scottish TUC gallops over the hill and Wallace greets them with the cry: "Hello chaps! Guess what? I've just given in to all their demands."
I think with fondness of Bonkers Hall. Shall I ever see it again? Shall I ever see my loyal staff again? How are Gorbachev the butler, Meadowcroft the gardener, Newton the chauffeur? Above all, how is Nancy my elephant? Shall I ever enjoy a pint of Greaves & Smithson's Northern Bitter in the Bonkers' Arms again? (Should any of my readers be fortunate than I and be reading this in the aforesaid hostelry, I would advise them against the Dahrendorf Lager.)
But let us not be downhearted. We Bonkers were ever resourceful, and I have built myself a shelter from driftwood and am drawing up plans to harness an electric eel to power a few simple domestic appliances. Having accomplished this, my thoughts naturally turn to politics. If I am condemned to live here for the rest of my life, it is no more than my duty to play a full part in the affairs of the neighbourhood. The beach, for instance, is in a poor state of repair, which suggests that I am not living in a Liberal ward. I shall produce a Focus leaflet briefly summarising my views on Free Trade and Chinese labour, and distribute it to the local inhabitants - just as soon as I come across them. To fight and win an election as a new boy will be difficult, but there are hopeful omens. Walking along the strand this morning I came across an octopus which bore a striking resemblance to Pat Wainwright. For aught I know, it may prove just as resourceful an agent.
The morning tide washes a newspaper ashore. It seems that Labour, too, has been holding a conference. In particular, they have a new education policy whereby all state schools will be divided into two categories: "middle-class schools" and "working-class schools", and beyond that there will be no selection of any kind. My old adversary Blair seems as popular as ever, but I wonder if he is not riding for a fall. In particular, his new slogan "I am the way, the truth, and the life; no man cometh unto the Father, but by me" will strike many as overegging the pudding.
Rescue! Early this morning I spy a well-built figure in a track suit jogging along the cliffs, throwing punches at an imaginary opponent and felling any deer which stray across her path with a crisp left hook. Attracted by my fire, she scrambles down to the beach. Who should it be but our own Sugar Ray Michie? Stranger still, she turns out to be the local Member of Parliament! When I ask how I may return to Rutland, she replies that, though she has never taken it herself, a local legend persists that "yon path over the hill" leads to a distant land where people live in houses where the sun shines even at night, listen to music borne upon the ether and sail among the clouds in silver ships. Pausing only to bid farewell to the octopus and present it with a bottle of claret, I strike out for home. Thus it is, after a long walk across difficult country, that I am sitting by a glowing fire in a modest but comfortable hotel, consuming a toddy of Auld Johnston and catching up with my diary. Even as I write, Newton is driving through the night to collect me; tomorrow I shall lunch at the Hall!
Sir Desmond Wilson once wrote - I cannot lay my hands upon the exact reference at present; perhaps it was in Airport? that "A week is a long time in politics". Quite how long I have been absent from my native Rutland I cannot say, but much has happened in my absence. In particular, Alan Howarth, a former member of the No Turning Back group, has decided that the changes wrought by that awful Thatcher woman can best be safeguarded by Blair and his New Labour Party. Who is to say he is wrong? Incidentally, I once suggested to the Revd Hughes that he might found a No Turning Up group - he was far from amused. At least I have arrived home in time to present my own Bonkers Prize for the year's best essay on L. T. Hobhouse by a first-class wicketkeeper.
At once to Westminster to witness the joust between Michael Howard and Jack Straw. All too predictably, Straw finds himself out of his depth, and matters are not helped when, just as is trying to make his point over subsection 3.a.ii of... Well, I fear he quite lost me, but, I say, matters are not helped when Blair suddenly barges Straw aside, seizes his notes and emits an exasperated "Here, let me do it!" When it comes to kicking beggars or being unpleasant to Liberals, Straw is your man, but anything much beyond that seems too much for him. Still, he may yet make his school's debating team if only he can stop his voice going so high at moments of tension.
Lord Bonkers was Liberal MP for Rutland South-West 1906-10