A pleasant luncheon with the Women Liberal Democrats. In my speech I touch upon the latest lightweight corsetry designed for wear in closely contested elections and discuss the future of domestic economy in this age of the semi-automatic mangle. I am delighted to find that the new President of this august body – following in the footsteps of such diverse figures as the blessed Nancy Seear and the feared East End gangster Violent Bonham-Carter – is the none other than Sue Doughty. Which landowner does not bear a heavy debt of gratitude to the inventor of the orchard doughty? This rugged staff is equally effective when applied to the crown of a poacher or the backside of an apple scrumper, and I long ago chose to equip each of my gamekeepers with one. I am not all surprised that the people of Guildford had the good sense to elect the woman as a token of their esteem.
Some years ago I observed that there is something odd about the way our Scottish Members are named. Too many of them are equipped with two Christian names (Nicol Stephen, Malcolm Bruce) or two surnames (Menzies Campbell). My point was obviously taken, as immediately afterwards our friends North of the Border took to selecting people with sensible names like John Barrett and Alan Reid. So it is with dismay this morning that I open a letter (from “A Well-Wisher, Peterculter”) and find it contains a crumpled cutting from Liberal Democrat News showing a photograph of the aforementioned Stephen, his wife and children. The photograph itself is charming, as are the names of their daughters – Mirrhyn and Mharni – but the names the couple have chosen for their sons give me the gravest concern. Macleod Stephen? Drummond Stephen? The poor boys have been named backwards! The tragedy is that Stephen Macleod and Stephen Drummond would be excellent names: one could imagine the latter coming on first change for Worcestershire. Such is my concern that I dictate a letter to Jim Wallace – or should I call him “Wallace Jim”? – urging him to act at once.
To the United Nations in New York for negotiations with Lincolnshire County Council over a number of parishes to which all fair-minded critics will admit that Rutland has an unanswerable claim. I begin by assuring Kofi Annan – I assume he is a relation of my old friend Noel Annan – that no one should read anything sinister into the naval exercise that we are holding on Rutland Water nor be alarmed by the maneuvers our troops are undertaking in the hills above Stamford. I go on to emphasise that we Rutlanders are a peaceful people who ask only to be left alone to farm our land and turn our cheeses and, but that, when roused, we… At this point there is a horrible electronic squawk from beneath the table. When we look under it we find a chap with an RAF moustache holding one of those microphones with the large fluffy tops and what looks remarkably like a reel-to-reel tape recorder.. “Terribly sorry,” he says when he has recovered himself, “just checking the tablelegs.”
The Prince of Wales pleaded with me to attend the first of what he termed “these, er, citizenship ceremony thingies”, but I tactfully refused. This sort of thing simply isn’t British, wouldn’t you say? (HRH took it badly, exclaiming “You dirty rotten swine, you have deaded me.”) In Rutland, being a more emotional people, we have long held such events. Those seeking citizenship are required to consume a meal of Stilton and pork pie before kissing the Great Seal of Rutland. (I am afraid it has rather fishy breath, but that is only to be expected.) The rules also require that applicants swear an oath of loyalty to the Duke of Rutland, but when I am conducting the ceremony I generally skip that part in favour of a lecture on some of the other great families hereabouts.
To a garden in Twickenham, almost in the shadow of the ground where the First Lady Bonkers used to command the blind side. Here I admire the bees belonging to none other than our Shadow Chancellor Vincent Cable. “What ho, Low Voltage!” I greet him, but he signals to me to be quiet. “I was telling the bees,” he explains afterwards. “Telling them what?” I ask, intrigued. “Telling them there is going to be a council by-election in Tunbridge Wells. It’s a tradition.” He then shows me a clever device that blows smoke over the stripy little chaps and quietens them down – I imagine he got the idea from the Conservative Whips’ office. Later, over a delicious tea (complete with honey), I tell him that his interest in beekeeping will do him no harm in the House but advise him to take his veil off first next time he asks Gordon Brown a question.
Great consternation in Wales where careless use of the wireless e-mail has led to our draft general election manifesto being sent to members of the New Party. It happens that I have been spending some time in the Principality recently, in my role as a theatre impresario, putting together a retrospective season of the plays of John Osborne under the title “Look Back in Bangor”. I am therefore on hand (and I can report that Mike German is close to tears of gratitude when he sees me arrive) to calm everyone down. When someone says it is a disaster I chide him (I am good at chiding) and point out that, however hard one tries, people are bound to find out what one’s policies are in the end.
I have never been terribly keen on judges: I remember the morning after the Boat Race one year when I was… Enough of that, but it does explain why I am no great lover of public inquiries. Some people are very fond of the things – Neil Kinnock spent his whole time as leader of the Labour Party calling for them – but you will rarely catch me saying “Send for a judge. One of those fellows will get to the bottom of things.” Thus I was not surprised when Lord Hutton delivered his absurd whitewash of the Government. Hutton was just the chap to have on your side when you were chasing a sporting target on a sticky dog at Adelaide or had been put in on a damp April morning at Worksop, but dress him in a wig and he is no better than the rest of the tribe.
Lord Bonkers was Liberal MP for Rutland South-West 1906-10