To Shrewsbury for a meeting of the Shropshire Literary and Philosophical Society – I am a Country Member. We Liberals and Radicals have always been proud to number poets amongst our number – one thinks of the Romantic brotherhood of Byron, Keetch and Shelley, and of the Reverend Hughes' late uncle Ted. Now they have been joined by Paul Marsden, who recently crossed the floor after addressing the following lines to Hilary Armstrong, the New Party's Chief Whip: “Because you kicked me in the slats,/I've joined the Liberal Democrats.”This evening he reads that work in full, and adds such challenging verses as “I am a fierce and ardent suitor,/Please someone pay for my computer” and “And I shall hire a Hawker Siddley/To drop large bombs on Sandra Gidley”. This Shropshire lad is no Peter Houseman, but I feel sure that we have not heard the last of him.
What's that? You want to know how that business with the ring turned out? You left me and my companions, if I recall aright, sheltering under a hedge on the borders of Rutland and fortifying ourselves with nips of Auld Johnston from my flask. I found the burdens of leadership weighing heavily upon me; above all, I wished to avoid going down in history as being responsible for a disastrous enterprise. One thinks of Scott and the South Pole and of David Steel and the Alliance. Talking of Scott, when supplies of Auld Johnston were getting low I pointedly mentioned the example of the gallant Captain Oates, who laid down his life to avoid becoming a burden to his fellows. No one took the hint, even though I raised the possibility that Oates had been taken in by a family of kindly penguins and nursed back to health.
Things took a turn for the better later that evening when we saw lights and heard music deep in the woods. “Um rave,” said Rising Star, but it turned out to be the elves of Rockingham Forest. These fellows keep themselves to themselves – apart from their traditional Whit Monday-fixture against the Gentlemen of Rutland, of course – but they proved gracious hosts. They gave us princely gifts: jerkins of the lightest chainmail, swords of tempered steel and elven waybread for our journey. In return we taught them advanced committee room practice, and we parted the firmest of friends.
So we continued our journey, travelling along ancient forest tracks and crossing London by abandoned railway tunnels known only to the Freemasons, and so found ourselves in Kent. We chose this county as our destination because of something my old friend Lord Rennard told me during his portentous visit to the Hall the other day. I shall not pretend to remember all he said – it was a warm afternoon and the Wincanton meeting was on the moving television – but I distinctly recall his mentioning something about a Lord of Darkness who had to be destroyed. Consulting Jane’s Fighting Conservatives, I deduced that this could only be one Michael Howard, the Member for Folkestone and Hythe. So eventually we struck camp at Dungeness, in the grim shadow of the atomic power station and the Jack Straw Memorial Reform School. I had some notion of dealing with the aforementioned Howard and then dropping my precious ring into the heart of the atom plant. Whilst there, I could perhaps borrow a little plutonium and see if it will do for my moustache what some wagging tongues allege it does for that of my old friend John Thurso.
Early the next morning I awoke to find a familiar figure trudging across the shingle towards our tents. It was none other than my old friend Lord Rennard, and he was the bearer of the most extraordinary tidings. He told me that whilst my companions and I had been engaged upon our quest the aforementioned Howard had been elected as leader of the Conservative Party. Not only that, but confidential polling carried out on behalf of the Liberal Democrats in Melton Constable revealed that he has become one of our party's greatest assets. On no account, I was sternly informed, was anything to befall him. This rather leaves my doughty company at a loose end, so I treat us all to luncheon at the Mermaid in Rye before having myself flown home from Lydd Airport. I arrived home to find preparations for the Bonkers Hall Ward bric-à-brac sale in full swing, and was happy to lend a hand.
I was sad to see Concorde making its final flight, for it was a supreme example of British know-how, grit and spunk. However, as I told poor old “Barmy” Benn on its first outing, a machine whose engines could burn nothing save high-denomination banknotes was never likely to prosper in this Age of Prudence.
I have been home for several days now, yet I still find a fresh pleasure in the quotidian round of life at the Hall. Today we all process to St Asquith's for divine service. As the guidebooks note, the interior of the church, with its boxed pews and sightscreens, has been little touched since the days of the Prince Regent; in particular, it retains its splendid double-decker pulpit. The Reverend Hughes is in mid-season form and, as is his habit when the muse is upon him, he climbs to the upper deck for the all the finest passages in his sermon. (“Clement Davies fought Montgomeryshire in 1929 and, lo, a majority of over two thousand did he achieve.”) I give my weekend guest and neigbour in the pew, Phil Willis, a hearty dig in the ribs and remark what a splendid spectacle this makes, but Willis replies that he does not approve of a two-tier service.
Mist wreaths the trees in the park, and Meadowcroft sweeps up the leaves while muttering about my making him go “gallumphing after they fairies”. Perhaps he blames me because it was not possible to find him a place on the flight back from Kent? Certainly, it was a long walk for him. I put this from my mind and hasten to supervise the latest trials of my self-delivering Focus. Perhaps I am still overdoing the gunpowder a little, and certainly the navigation has yet to be perfected, but I remain convinced that I stand upon the threshold of great things with this invention. Indeed my pleasure would be complete were it not for one nagging thought: I have not seen that ring Rennard was so concerned about since we finished boxing up the bric-à-brac on the evening of my return.
Lord Bonkers was Liberal MP for Rutland South-West 1906-10