Notebook
In Perth on Sunday, in Bradford on Wednesday, in London on Friday, Shirley Wiliams and Roy Jenkins addressed the brand new Social Democratic Party on the policy document to be agreed with the ancient Liberals, 'A Fresh Start for Britain'. Three fresh starts in a week is surely excessive. But then there is undoubtedly that which is excessive about the Social Democrats, particularly their blatant enjoyment of the political scene they have created. Aristotle would not have approved. This is not the golden mean. Nor, however, is it the hard centre, or at least not yet, not as long as Shirley Williams is in the middle of it. Her decision, announced to the party conference at Bradford, to offer herself for selection as the SDP/Liberal alliance candidate for Crosby suddenly electrified the Bradford scene. She had been under much pressure to take the risk. Crosby's 19,000 Tory majority is not an attractive proposition, but to look to be running scared is even less attractive. She is right to offer to stand and put herself to the test: a difficult decision, gravely made.
Difficult to know what to make of Shirley, bustling along with her head cocked slightly down and slightly askew, a fat small handbag tucked beneath her arm, her hair tangled by the wind. She says she is fed up with being regarded as nice. But if we don't regard her as nice, what are we left with? A strident, doctrinaire class warrior of the Left, who did more to destroy our education system and to promote illiteracy and innumeracy than any other Minister of Education ever, the late and too much lamented Sir Edward Boyle notwithstanding? Yes; but, Edward Lyons, QC, MP for Bradford West, quaintly said, welcoming her to Bradford's St George's Hall: 'Above all, she is a magnificent human being,' a view with which we can all concur.
The special SDP train to Perth stopped specially at Warrington. Shirley got off, like almost everybody else, and looked for a moment as if, surrounded by Warrington well-wishers, she might miss getting back on when the whistle blew. 'Come on, come on,' I said to her, 'You can't afford to miss the train again,' easing her towards the door. 'What do you mean, George!' she exclaimed very crossly, 'I never miss trains. Never.' She is extremely annoyed with Roy Jenkins, one of her chief rivals for the leadership of the SDP, for suggesting that she is always late. When her other rival, Dr David Owen, was missing from the bus taking them the very short walk from their hotel to Perth's City Hall, she exclaimed with much relish, 'He is late as usual.' The party's draft constitution, written by Robert MacLennan, MP for Caithness and Sutherland, is an excessively complicated document. Robert, an intelligent fellow, should have taken a few minutes off to read the United States Constitution, an altogether simpler, better written document which derives, via the Declaration of Independence, from our own Petition of Rights. With a few notable amendments, it has survived very well for close on 200 years. The SDP's draft is far too long and, proposing no less than five tiers of authority, far too complicated. It also contains a profound error which the party would do well to correct before it is adopted. Its preamble is a statement of principles, most of them unobjectionable if trendy, uninspired and insufficiently orotund for the occasion. The last one, however, declares that the party 'intends that Britain will play a full and constructive role within the framework of the European Community, Nato, the United Nations and the Commonwealth. . .'. This is a ludicrous hostage to fortune. It is far too specific. A political party might well expect to have a longer life than some of the organisations named and the SDP might well find that membership of one or another of them had become incompatible with its other principles. Moreover, it effectively excludes from membership that majority in the country and — according to the polls — in its own ranks, who opposed our adherence to the Treaty of Rome. Is such a selfinflicted wound really what the party intends?
Every party needs its clown prince. The Tories had Norman St John Stevas until he became solemn and wet. The Liberals still have Clement Freud, the Gaming Board permitting. The Labour Party's king is such a jester that in his shadow none of his deputies looks a sufficient clown to be either a pleasurable pretender or a good joke. Benn himself ought to be the clown prince, but he is taken too seriously. Hattersley would make a fine one, but he has become a stalwart of the Right and therefore not to be sniffed at or laughed with. In time the Beast of Bolsover, Dennis Skinner, is bound to succeed to the title. Alas, at the moment, neither he nor his friends fully appreciate the absurdity of his stance. He is straight, and magnificently so, out of Don Quixote's entourage.
nominate Nevile Sandelson as the SDP's principal clown. He has already voluntered to stand for the deputy leadership. He complained bitterly that British Rail could not supply him with a decent cigar. He volunteered to support Lord Kennet when Wayland, as we remember him from his ecological days, discovered that his pocket had been picked and he had lost all his credit cards. He even lent 52p to Francis Noel-Baker, who had discovered he had boarded the train without a penny piece on him.
Noel-Baker, who does not enjoy within the SDP the reverence the Labour Party gives his ancient pacifist father, was compelled by fellow travellers to contribute towards the cost of rounds. He went to pay his belated way with a cheque. When asked for his credit card he replied, 'I've left it in Greece,' as befits a man whose Byronic ancestry on the distaff side provides him with a slab of that once noble land.
T am indebted to Peter Paterson for the 1 terrible pun, before which even his BBC producer quailed, that what we were seeing were 'the Perth pangs' of a new party. Perth pangs notwithstanding, it was not too bad hearing kilted professional accordionplaying Scotsmen blaring out to the tune of 'The Tartan', the catchy refrain, `So hey for the Party/And ho for the Party/The voice of the people/Supports SDP.' A common and trite little jingle; but I seem to remember learning years ago how the Hanoverian song, Lilli Burlero, finished off, with a good tune and a few words, the preposterous pretending Stuarts. That particular sing-song was, however, nothing to the sing-song inflicted upon David Owen and Bill Rodgers and Roy Jenkins on the train from Perth to Bradford. Enthusiastic journalists with a copy of the unofficial Liberal songbook had David Owen singing 'Don't let the scarlet banner float/We want the middle classes' vote' to the tune of the Red Flag, and-`The people's flag is slightly pink — it's not as red as most folks think.' The daft journalists, led by pantalooned and jollyhockeysticks Elinor Goodman of the Financial Times and Jim Naughtie of The Scotsman, sang out, 'Vote, vote, vote for Mr Jenkins/He is for the SDP/We don't know what else he's for/We think he's anti-war/Though he won't be seen dead with CND.' With Bill Rodgers they almost raised the railway carriage roof with the Liberal Party's theme song, sung to the tune Waltzing Matilda, 'Losing deposits, losing deposits, who'll come a-losing deposits with me?' A very relaxed leadership, greatly enjoying their politics, 'laid back', as the Americans would say.
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