In Town for the nuptials of Charles Kennedy and Miss Sarah Gurling. The bride looks radiant, and I note that she is a tall girl; I doubt, however, that she would win quite as much line-out ball as the first Lady Bonkers. The service goes splendidly: I give a reading from L. T. Hobhouse, the Reverend Hughes is able to announce a council by-election gain in Lancashire during the taking of vows, and Alan Beith plays Mendelssohn's Wedding March on his euphonium as the newlyweds leaves the church. All in all, it is the finest Liberal wedding since Phil Willis married Nigel De Gruchy. At the reception I find myself seated next to Jeremy Paxman of moving television fame. Knowing his views on drink, I am careful to keep his glass filled with nothing stronger than orange juice. Yet perhaps I have the wrong fellow in mind, for he repeatedly asks for something stronger. Indeed, by my calculation he asks me the same question 14 times.
The Kennedys have left for a honeymoon at a secret destination in the Far East. (I happen to know that it is Southwold, but my lips are sealed.) I, by contrast, find myself at St Asquith's, listening to another of the Reverend Hughes' sermons. This religion business is all very well, but you can take it too far. Take this morning's lesson, which is all about it being easier for a camel to thread a needle than for a rich man to get into heaven, or some such rot. Leaving aside the fact that there are parts of Arabia where camels' embroidery is greatly prized – so much so that D. H. Lawrence once sent me a sampler for my birthday – I wonder how the poor would fare if better off fellows didn't have cash to spend. There is, as my old friend John Milton Keynes often remarked, more to this economics lark than meets the eye. At least we finish off by singing The Land, so everyone goes home in good spirits.
Did you watch that television programme about Jeremy Thorpe? I thought it in very poor taste. Why do people constantly have to drag these things up? Is it not better to let sleeping dogs lie? Can you believe that, even now, I receive impertinent enquiries about my Marconi shares? For what it is worth, I have it on good authority that, while Mr Thorpe enjoyed a close friendship with Sir Peter Scott, no impropriety of any sort took place. Perhaps Sir Peter showed him his widgeon, but it certainly went no further than that.
I was sorry to read that our own Ross Finnie is in the soup for calling the Director General of the CBI an "English prat", because I have known him for many years. We first met when, as Ron Finnie – a young man with a pronounced West Midlands accent – he came to the Hall to seek my counsel. He was intent upon a political career yet, despite issuing a regular Focus newsletter in his ward of Dudley, he was making little progress. Devolution was in the air even then, so I advised him to look north. With my help he arranged a berth on the night sleeper, vocal coaching from the late John Laurie and an internship with the Miss Peggy Inverarity Pipe Majorettes. So successful was our plan that he became Minister for Rural Affairs in the Scottish Parliament, but now he has taken it too far. It may be that the fellow is a prat – certainly, no man who expects to be taken seriously calls himself "Digby" – but it is not the best form to make light a chap's nationality (particularly if he has the good fortune to be English).
The footer season begins, as is traditional, with the annual Lords vs Commons match at Wembley Stadium. The old place is not at its best, and the head-high grass does not lend itself to a passing game. Captaining the peers' XI from my accustomed berth as an attacking centre half, I am engaged in a vigorous but fair tussle for the ball with my opposite number Bob Russell in the course of which the Member for Colchester has the misfortune to suffer a superficial machete wound. Imagine my chagrin at reading in the Evening News that Russell wants to see me prosecuted on the grounds that "footballers should not be exempt from the law". What nonsense! We see more robust play than this every week in the Rutland Combination – and from the tea ladies at that. Is it any wonder that, his big band notwithstanding, I prefer the company of the man's brother Earl?
It has been drawn to my attention that President Kenny W. Bunkport III Jnr is going around comparing himself with Winston Churchill. I knew Churchill; I worked for Churchill (at least I would have done if he had had the sense to give me a job); Churchill was a friend of mine: and Bunkport is no Churchill. Yet his immortal crust has had the happy effect of reminding me of an amusing change between Winston and the first Lady Bonkers. "If I were married to you, I should put poison in your glass," said my lady wife. "If I were married to you, my dear," replied Churchill, "I should drink it." At which, always one to have the last word, the first Lady B. took up the soda siphon and whacked him over the head. Everyone agreed it was the wittiest thing, and Winston dined out on the story for months.
To my tailor's to purchase a stoating cap and some thornproof underpants. Who should I meet there but little Steel, and very chipper he looks too. "Restored to rude health, what?" I venture amicably. "It's not just that, your lordship," he replies. "Look around you." I do, and the place is simply packed with coloured shirts with white collars. "They laughed at me in the eighties, but I knew I was ahead of my time. It's the same in politics: only the other day I was telling Bill Newton Dunn that he should set up a new…" The room swims, horrible phantoms from the Alliance years rear up in front of me and I stagger into the street for air. Unfortunately, I have a cummerbund in my hand at the time, and the store detective take a stern view of proceedings; thus I am writing this entry in the cells of a London police station. If I am up before the beak tomorrow, I shall certainly plead Sir Ian Wrigglesworth in mitigation.
Lord Bonkers was Liberal MP for Rutland South-West 1906-10