The new city of Maynard Keynes, as I recall, was planned upon the assumption that every inhabitant would own his or, indeed, her own motor car. I said at the time that it was a foolish idea, and you may feel that subsequent events have proved me right. By contrast, when Oakham was rebuilt after the Stilton Riots of the late 1840s it was assumed that one day every citizen would own his own horse or, indeed, mare. I remain convinced that we shall one day attain that noble goal. Nevertheless, the automobile has made inroads even here and we Rutlanders are determined to do something about it. We have adopted, not traffic calming, but traffic alarming. Thus while the speed hump is all very well, our speed abyss is far more effective; similarly, speed cameras are more of a deterrent if they are adapted to fire death rays at the incautious motorist. I would write more, but I hear the chap from the RAC arriving to help retrieve my Bentley from the elephant trap. And to think I was warning Nancy about it only the other day!
Now the old jalopy is back on terra firma and being polished by the Well-Behaved Orphans as a token of my belief in vocational education, I am at leisure to conclude yesterday’s discussion. I shall add that, perhaps as a result of the robust measures described above, public transport is very well patronised here in Rutland. The buses, in particular, are crowded – so much so that I recently suggested to Phil Willis that we should use double-decker vehicles instead. He replied that he was against the idea as it would involve a two-tier service.
What fun Christmas was at the Hall! I filled the place with the jolliest of guests: here were Plum Duff and the elves of Rockingham Forest enjoying a joke on the grand staircase; there was Hazel Grove (a lovely girl) listening to Emma Nicholson describing her plans for another mission to suppress vice amongst the Uzbeks. (Emma, by the way is terribly fond of the Marsh Arabs, though perhaps not quite of fond of them as the late Wilfred Thesiger was.) You may have seen that the appalling Blair recently snubbed my old friend the Dalai Lama by refusing to meet him: I, by contrast, was more than delighted to invite him to stay. By a happy chance, another friend who farms in Patagonia was able to come too, and brought his llamas. They all got on famously, though I did hear of an unfortunate misunderstanding at the airport when everyone was going home.
Who should telephone whilst I am taking my morning coffee but the leader of our party? “I expect you are looking forward to debating the Len Hutton report,” I begin brightly. “I was,” he returns, “but they have made a mistake with the arrangements. I have just has a letter saying I will be able to inspect a copy from six in the morning.” “What’s the mistake?” I ask. “Come on, your lordship,” he chides me in his democratic Highland way, “everyone knows there is no six o’clock in the morning.” When I finally convince him that such an hour exists, the poor fellow is frightfully embarrassed. “At least it explains one thing,” he consoles himself, “I always wondered why Paddy called lots of meetings at six or seven but there was no one there when I turned up.”
To Great Smith Street in London to visit the Adam Smith Institute. In the past year these fellows have trousered more than seven and a half million pounds in foreign aid. Now, I know a lot of younger people are in favour of that sort of thing, believing that we in the West should use our wealth to bring benefits like clean water, primary education and true wickets to less fortunate parts of the world. When I was a young man I believed it too, but bitter experience has brought me to believe that such charity is often a very mixed blessing, doing more to salve the conscience of the rich than to improve the lot of the poor, whom it condemns to a life of indolence. Thus I am not surprised when I find the natives at Great Smith Street in a sorry state. Dressed in fifty loincloths and with bones through their noses, they pass their days making human sacrifices in the hope of bringing about the return of the “Great White She Mother”. A passing theologian suggests to me that they mean Mrs Thatcher, and I fear he is right. (I admit that the more primitive tribes in the upper Welland Valley still worship the first Lady Bonkers, but the Reverend Hughes assures me that these days they expect her return only “in a very real sense”.) So there you have it: overseas aid does little good in the long run, but I am reconciled to the knowledge that I shall win few favours for saying so.
On the high Pennines to meet an American tenor who is walking from St Bees in Cumberland to Robin Hood’s Bay on the Yorkshire coast and performing Schubert’s Winterreise at every evening stop. (Do you know the Schubert? It’s Terribly Good, but there aren’t a lot of places where you are encouraged to join in.) I wish him well, and tell him of an enterprise of my own when first down from the Varsity. Anxious to bring culture to the labouring classes, I rounded up some of the fellows and we set off on a cycling tour of the Nottinghamshire coalfield. Every evening we staged a performance of one of Wagner’s jollier efforts, and if you have ever seen the Valkyries pedalling like fury and ringing their bells for all they are worth, you will know just how exciting opera can be.
Did you see that a Conservative MP was asked to leave the chamber because Mr Speaker thought he was taking a photograph? That sort of thing is frowned upon, though you will sometimes find copies of photographs a Member took during the Norway Debate in 1940 in books on the period. (“Speak for England, Arthur, and you did take my better side, didn’t you?” as Leo Amery said at the time.) However, I was the pioneer in parliamentary photography, and as a fledgling backbencher at that. Of course, cameras were rather cumbersome in those days and the flash one made by igniting explosive powder did make things rather conspicuous; moreover, I was, on mature reflection, ill advised to call out to Balfour to “watch the birdie”. The resultant photographs were something of a disappointment, as my thumb features prominently, but you can just make out Carson’s left knee if you know where to look.
Lord Bonkers was Liberal MP for Rutland South-West 1906-10