As I look back upon the festive season, a wealth of warm memories crowds in upon me. Christmas Eve saw me dressing up in a red suit and cotton wool beard and letting myself down the chimney at the Home for Well-Behaved Orphans to collect the presents that had been put out for me. That was great fun, but I did not enjoy this year's nativity play half as much. On legal advice, the school had decided to wrap all the children from head to foot in stout hessian to avoid awakening the passions of undesirable elements in the audience. This seemed to me to be Going A Bit Far, and it had the unfortunate effect of muffling the lines; some of my favourite bits, such as "Oh look, a star!", were quite spoilt. On the positive side, the donkey was something of a stunner. Finally, Boxing Day saw the traditional contest between Lord Bonkers' XI and an Esqimaux XI here at the Hall. I am pleased to announce that, despite a stubborn seventh wicket partnership between Björk and Nanook of the North, my team emerged triumphant.
To Kent for a dinner to mark the fortieth anniversary of Eric Lubbock's victory in the Orpington by-election. I flatter myself that I played no little part in that triumph, but modesty forbids me to make more than the most passing reference to that contribution in my speech. The evening reminds me that in those days one heard a great deal about Orpington Man: he was quite the latest thing and we Liberals had great hopes of him. Unfortunately, upon further investigation he turned out to be a crude fabrication made up from the jaw of a Conservative and the skull of a gibbon. I think the ease with which he gained such fame says a great deal about the Britain of the day, don't you?
A new consignment of canvass cards arrives from Cowley Street. In place of usual Liberal, Probable, Socialist and so forth, the columns are headed with descriptions like "innovator", "self-actualiser" and "contented conformer". I telephone to complain and am put through to a fellow called Razzall. When I point out that none of these categories quite covers me, he points out that I could also be a "striver", a "traditionalist", an "esteem seeker" or "disconnected". Unfortunately, the line goes dead at this point.
I read in this morning's newspaper that a dog has been killed by a panther at Llangadog. Of course, given that I am reading the Manchester Guardian it may well be that a panther had been killed by a dog at Llangapanther. Whatever the facts of the case, I note from the facing page that our own Paul Tyler has decided to stand down as Member of Parliament for North Cornwall. In view of events in Llangapanther, I think this wise. I first met Tyler in '06 when we were both new bugs in the Commons, and even then he was thought one of the brightest – though perhaps not the brightest – amongst the new intake and known affectionately to all as the "Beast of Bodmin". Like you diarist he had the misfortune to lose his seat in 1910, but unlike your diarist he did not have a peerage upon which to fall back. Consequently he fought every ensuing election before finally succeeding in returning to the Commons in 1992. Perhaps those long years of campaigning had taken their toll, but by then he had taken to roaming the moors by night with his characteristic loping gait, and the local farmers were beginning to complain. Let us now look to his successor and send our good wishes to Mr Robin Teverson, whoever he may turn out to be.
A steel grey dawn breaks over Rutland Water and there is no sound but the haunting cry of the wheway. As a Rear Admiral in the Rutland Naval Reserve I have long taken an interest in fishery protection (I was instrumental in bringing into being the longer close season that the hedge carp now enjoys) and I am here this morning to make sure that no Spanish factory ships have ventured on to Rutland Water. I fear the United Kingdom has husbanded its resources less carefully. The connoisseurs amongst you will be familiar with Jack van Geloven's Neptune's Tribute to Europa, which hangs in the Blue Dining Room here at the Hall. This striking canvass shows a naked Sir Edward Heath sprawled upon a bed of fish with his arm about the neck of a bull. Our own Ron Finnie does his best in Scotland, others run refuges for battered cod, but I fear for the future of this plucky fish if it does not have the good sense to move to Rutland.
It is not only van Geloven who can paint: you will often find me engaged with smock, easel and model of an afternoon. Why, only last year my Sunset over Bonkers Hall was exhibited at the Rutland Academy! Thus it was natural that, when recruiting leading British artists to design covers for him, little Rusbridger at the Manchester Guardian should call upon my services. It seems, however, that my uncompromising offering was a little too red-blooded for the muesli-and-water types who read that organ nowadays. In view of the furore which ensued, let me at once make clear that I meant to no disrespect to Miss Polly Toynbee: my words, rather, were mean to reflect public exasperation at all those who write turgid columns praising every act of the appalling Blair and his wife, the Japanese property magnate. We true artists are so often misunderstood.
How sad to I was to learn of the death of Roy Jenkins! We may have had our disagreements – notably over the European Underwear Directive – but I have the fondest memories of games of croquet at East Hendred and dinners at the Reform Club. My one regret was that I was not able to persuade little Steel to relent and allow him to join the Liberal Party. One week I was told that we were full up, the next that the members were still rather sore about Lloyd George and the time was not yet ripe. (I replied that he had to admit that Jenkins was trying his hardest not to be Welsh, but Steel was implacable.) The result was that Jenkins eventually gave up the attempt and founded his own "SDP Party" instead. Amusing as it was, I think my old friend deserved a more dignified end.
Lord Bonkers was Liberal MP for Rutland South-West 1906-10