Did you read those reports about the cull of hedgehogs in the Outer Hebrides? It seems that our spiked friends are in the habit of tucking in to the eggs of rare seabirds, with the result that there is hardly a wheway to be found from one end of North Uist to the other. I went up to Lochmaddy for some sport, but found myself feeling sorry for the little chaps and, in a moment of weakness, offered them asylum at the Hall. They arrived the other day (pace the Daily Mail, there were no Albanians in pantomime hedgehog costumes amongst them), and I have to admit that I am finding them Rather Hard Work. It is not that they are infested with fleas: so are a number of Liberal Democrat activists of my acquaintance. No, what troubles me is that they are intensely religious and expect me and join them in singing psalms in Gaelic at the drop of a hat. And as to their views on keeping the sabbath: I shall merely say that they make Nanny sound like a libertine. Meadowcroft, however, will not hear a word against them. Not only do they eat slugs, they have joined the Wee Free Liberals who meet in his potting shed. I can hear them singing there as I write.
Early morning at Market Haborough station: I arrive on the Bonkers Hall branch and wait for the London train. A figure in an anorak catches my eye: as a goods train clanks north, he excitedly writes in a notebook before unwrapping a packet of sandwiches and treating himself to a cup of coffee from his thermos. Just as I am considering engaging him in discussion about the finer points of A4 Pacifics and dropping a few hints about how welcome a cup of coffee would be, a helicopter appears overhead. Suddenly the fellow is seized from all sides by arned policemen and frog-marched off the platform. "It's Guantanomo Bay for you, sunshine," sneers a constable. Such an intrusion upon our civil liberties is not be be borne, and I spend the journey to Town drafting a letter to The Times. My only consolation is that the poor fellow dropped his thermos in the mêlée.
I read in the Manchester Guardian that Norman Baker wants to ban parents from taking their children to school in landrovers and such like vehicles. I have an instinctive sympathy with him: one sees so much oil wasted when there are many other ways of generating energy (wave power, Malachy Dromgoogle's roof, an orphan on a treadmill...). So I telephone Baker to learn more about his idea. “Each district council,” he enthuses, “will appoint a travel-to-school commissioner to inspect all vehicles. He or she will consider their environmental sustainability and age appropriateness, and award a certificate to any that pass.” I can see that it might make work for graduates from some of our newer universities, but I cannot see it going down well with the voters. If I were Baker, I would concentrate my campaigning on Tibet and the reopening of the Lewes to Uckfield railway line – both subjects upon which he is acknowledged as an international authority.
All Liberals will wish bon voyage to the European mission to Mars, if only because it reminds us of the glory days of the Bird of Liberty and the intrepid David Chidgey. Informed sources in Brussels tell me that the idea behind the latest rocket ship is to see, once and for all, whether there is life on the red planet. If there is, the astronauts, euronauts, blignauts or whatever they call themselves will persuade the little green men to implement the European Underwear Directive and, in return, we shall subsidise their agriculture and ensure that any cucumbers they grow are of suitable shape. Incidentally, what do you make of this new constitution up to which we are all supposed to sign? (Good grammar, what?) Bill Newton-Dunn (best known as the hero of one of Betjeman’s most celebrated poems) assures me that the notion of our sending a tribute of twenty youths and maidens to Strasburg every year was agreed to by Mrs Thatcher when she agreed to the Single European Act, but that hardly strikes me as a consolation.
David Rendel rows me out to one of the islands on Rutland Water. Having watched Lembit Öpik's young lady in the jungle, I am considering making a programme here for Rutland Television. The idea is that you maroon a lot of people and make them eat beetles, wrestle hippopotami and so forth. One thing I have noticed is that slow bowlers are particulaly popular with the public; hence my own series will be called I'm an Off Spinner, Get me Out of Here (If Your Lordship Will Accept a Cheque). Already John Emburey, Vic Marks and Pat Pocock have agreed to appear, amd I have no doubt that it will prove a huge success.
My old friend George Galloway is in the Algarve writing a book. Funnily enough, the other day I met an MP from the Algarve who was writing a book in Glasgow. Whilst in Scotland I attended the opening of their Parliament to see little Steel in the chair for the last time. All went well until one of the Socialists insisted on singing some verses by the immortal Rabbi Burns. I would not have minded, but when I took the oath back in ’06 and had the idea of jollying up the proceedings by accompanying myself on the banjolele, everyone complained. Not for the first time, I found myself ahead of in advance of public opinion.
I have long been in the habit of inviting the President of the United States to dinner at the Hall at this time of year. One does have to keep the Democrat incumbents away from the chambermaids, but there is often good conversation as a compensation. The current fellow arrives and I give him the usual tour of the old demesne. All goes well until I show him the palm trees in one of my glasshouses. The fellow gives a shriek of joy, shins up the trunk and proceeds to pelt the assembled company with bananas, and no amount of pleading will bring him down in time for dinner. Later I have to face Meadowcroft in his potting shed. “Yon monkey's befangled my tropicals,” he complains bitterly to the hedgehogs.
Lord Bonkers was Liberal MP for Rutland South-West 1906-10