We have recently suffered another sad death in our Liberal family: dear Richard Wainwright is no more. Several generations of actvists owe their introduction to the world of political campaigning to his famous little guidebooks with their hand drawn maps – I have his West Country Marginals open in front of me as I write – where every feature of interest, be it an awkward letterbox, an aggressive farm dog or a particularly austere Primitive Methodist chapel, was meticulously noted. These modern fellows with their EARS, their fur-lined canvassing boots and their “contented conformers” are all very well, but many of us still prefer to reach for our Wainwrights when faced with a sticky by-election.
Dinner with Phil Willis. I seldom saw eye to eye with headmasters in my young day (not that that was the position one was always invited to assume), but we get on tolerably well. I deem it wise not to mention the handwritten verses he left in his room last time he stayed at the Hall; besides I could not bring myself to read further than the opening couplet: “Oochie, coochie/Nigel de Gruchy”. After the meal we invite the chef to the table to receive our compliments. I notice that the hotel has a balcony overlooking the restaurant and suggest that it might be a jolly idea to put a few tables up there so that diners can enjoy the view. Willis, however, is against this idea because it would involve a two-tier service.
Malachy Dromgoogle calls to ask if I will I be marching against the war on Saturday and certainly not to seek my support in his campaign to be the Liberal Democrat candidate for Mayor of London. I say that I would come but, as I am busy on the Estate and am looking forward to the rugger international on the moving television, I think it unlikely I shall be in Town this weekend and will he kindly give my regards to his roof panels? Besides, I deem it better to stay close to the Hall because Meadowcroft is in a bate about this GM food one reads so much nowadays. “They tomatoes be argifying,” as he pithily puts it. So much so that I wonder whether the seed I obtained from Dr Harris's laboratories was such a good buy. When the Prince of Wales invited himself to look at my gardens the other day I told him that he was welcome to come but probably would not get a word in edgeways.
The Government's dossier on Iraqi arms reaches me under a plain brown wrapper – Ashplant isn't the only one in this party with contacts in the world of intelligence, you know. I settle down in the Library to read, and it soon proves strangely familiar. Gradually it dawns upon me: the whole thing is lifted word for word from my own Through Mesopotamia with Rod and Line. The maiden voyage of my airship, the thrilling match against King Faisal's XI, the first Lady Bonkers' fight with the jackal... They are all there. What an outrage! And no mention of royalties either! I send a telegram to Dromgoogle telling him I shall be there on the morrow to lead the march. By the way, if anyone knows Rod's current whereabouts I should be grateful to hear from them.
We are thousands strong as we march with out yellow banners flying, and all the foremost Liberals are here. The lovely Hazel Grove, Philip “Whoopi” Goldenberg, Sugar Ray Michie, the Flying Bellotti Brothes, Patsy Kensit from Cheadle, Paul Tyler (who has shaved his hands for the occasion), Lembit ?pik scouring the horizon for stray meteorites, Mrs Bollard, Alan Beith with his euphonium, even Kennedy himself... Yes, they all take their turn carrying my sedan chair. When we reach Hyde Park I find the platform speakers something of a diappointment: Michael Foot waves his hands about and shouts every seventh word; an elderly fellow by the name of Tariq Ali calls for world revolution; Wedgwood Benn tells us that Saddam is the latest in a long line of English radicals that includes the Diggers, the Suffragettes and Arthur Scargill and deserves our support. Just as I am about to add a few well-chosen words of my own, a bossy woman called Jowell appears to tell us to keep off the grass, wipe out feet and blow our noses (or possibly to wipe our noses and blow our feet). People – especially those given to writing letters to the Manchester Guardian – ask me why these ladies from the New Party are so often accused of nannying the public: I suspect they will find that the reason is that they so often do nanny the public.
The newspapers tell me that two more Conservative MPs are on the verge of joining us: suddenly certain events I have witnessed of late fall into place. In recent days Rising Star (the Red Indian chief and member for Winchester) has been much in evidence in the tearoom where, dressed in full fig (feathered headress, tomahawk and so forth), he has been passing plates of macaroons to some of the wetter Tory backbenchers. “They want to cross um Buffalo River but squaws make heap big trouble,” he comments gnomically. Incidentally, aren't you a little tired of the way Fleet Street constantly gets his job title wrong? He is not, as they would have it, Chairman of the Liberal Democrats but merely Chairman of Um Parliamentary Party.
Still in London, I awake at Bonkers House in Belgrave Square to find the city strangely quiet. While my bath is drawn I look out and see that the streets are empty. By 10 o'clock urchins are playing footer and spontaneous street parties are breaking out; street sellers cry their ways, then sing and dance. Say what you like about Livingstone (and I for one have been critical of his decision to shoot all the pigeons and fill Trafalgar Square with newts – they bite the tourists, steal their mobile telephones and raid the ice cream vans), this Congestion Charge is quite the thing. I trust that, whether our candidate be Susan J. Kramer, Dromgoogle or the Revd Hughes, we shall promise to keep the thing in place. Why, I may even have it introduced in Rutland!
Lord Bonkers was Liberal MP for Rutland South-West 1906-10