Matters are quite back to normal after our celebration of the Maastricht vote: the last beacon has been extinguished, the last church bell silenced. It has been difficult, though, even for one of my experience, to follow every twist of the debate. I was unable quite to grasp the logic of my colleagues in the Upper House who opposed the holding of a referendum on the grounds that it would be undemocratic to consult the people. Even more puzzling was Lord Jenkins' warning that such an exercise would lead to the breaking of the Conservative Party and its exclusion from power: I rather thought that was the sort of thing we were aiming at. No doubt one gets confused if one is constantly changing sides, but it is a pity that none of our chaps thought to lean across and remind him to which party he currently belongs.
Young Ashbutts is not the sort of chap to stop for breakfast, but if he were, I do not doubt that he would come up with three new ideas first. His latest wheeze is that we should not stop to ask whether a chap is an MP before allowing him into the cabinet. This has its attractions, in that of late we have not been quite as successful at getting Liberals elected to Parliament as once we were, but I would urge a little caution. Our local health authority, for instance, now consists of a Conservative MP, his wife, their Belgian au pair, and their daughter's pony "Pippin". Popular election is the surest way to end such abuses, and I cannot support Ashtray's idea, even if it would finally clear Dame Alan Watson's way to high office.
To the Bonkers Home for Well-Behaved Orphans, where the buildings are being assailed by masonry bees. (They exchange funny handshakes and burrow into the mortar.) I rejoice that, as Chairman of the Trustees, I have ensured that the place is run on sound business lines - how fortunate, by the way, our great party is to enjoy the services of Philip "Whoopi" Goldenberg in a similar capacity - so we shall not be obliged to follow the Government's urgings and put the orphans up for sale. As an exercise, I have them each write a letter to Mr Rupert Allason MP (better known as the cricket commentator Peter West) saying how much they admire him as a man of principle and urging him to resign his seat in Torbay and fight a by-election. A crude stratagem, I admit, but I have the feeling that he is just the sort of fellow to fall for it.
An evening's visit to The Bonkers Arms with the Revd Hughes is not the pleasure it was: the landlord, Kennedy, has replaced our beloved Smithson & Greaves Northern Bitter with the dreadful gassy Dahrendorf lager. Nor is there any joy to be found in tippling with Meadowcroft in his potting shed, as he is at present away in Africa initiating the Watusi into the more arcane mysteries of the single transferable vote. Walking back to the Hall in the twilight, I catch Blair, the village Socialist, delivering leaflets bearing the legend "Ladies, is your constable's truncheon large enough?" Really, the man is quite shameless.
On the way to Christchurch, my Bentley is searched by the City of London police - no doubt they wish to encourage the Fenians to blow up some less affluent people elsewhere. They seem unable to grasp the point that any experienced campaigner on the way to a promising by-election will carry with him a modest arsenal, but if this is the price we must pay to show that we shall not allow terrorism to alter our British way of life, so be it. The people of Christchurch themselves are an unprepossessing group: they consist entirely of blue-rinsed women who read the Daily Express, eat vast quantities of cream biscuits and dream of doing uncomfortable things to felons with their hat-pins. Nevertheless, they seem sound enough on VAT, and anyone who ventures abroad wearing an orange rosette is embraced and showered with kisses, so all seems set fair for the count tonight.
One should not become carried away by the result of a by-election - who now remembers David Alton? - but I find myself greatly encouraged. In particular, the inability of the Socalists to outpoll the Alfred Chicken Party means that we are now the Tories' sole challenger over much of southern England. (I give a little fellow named Kellner a lift, and he argues that it really means that the Alfred Chicken Party will gain two seats in Plymouth next time, but I cannot see it.) As I reach Rutland, I reflect what a splendid thing it is that we now have three ladies in the Commons. But let us hope that we do not reach the same pass as the Labour Party. I know of at least one chap who has been going about in a dress for three years in the hope of gaining the nomination for a safe seat in County Durham.
I have, I blush to confess, occasionally been known to speak harshly of Sir David Steel. It is now apparent that someone in the Serious Fraud Office has been forging letters in his name and that I shall have to don sackcloth and ashes and write him a letter of apology. The first forgery, it transpires, was a letter inviting some repentant Socialists to form a new party rather than join us; the second offered this "SDP Party" some of our most promising seats; the third proposed that the Liberal Party be destroyed, a new party with a name nobody could remember be formed, and that the sons of two Conservative MPs be invited to write its programme. With hindsight, one is amazed that these crude productions fooled anybody. A moment's reflection tells one that no Liberal leader could conceivably behave in so ridiculous a manner.
Lord Bonkers was Liberal MP for Rutland South-West 1906-10