Westminster Corridors

As we were at the Club the other night, I observed that my old friend Sir Simon d'Audley, contrary to his usual custom, sat very silent, and instead of minding what was said by the company, was whistling to himself in a thoughtful mood, and playing with a cork. I jogged Sir Charles Freeport, who sat between us, and as we were both watching we saw the Knight shake his head and say: "Crudelis ubique, Luctus, ubique pavor, et plurima mortis imago."

Recovering out of his brown study, Sir Simon declared how well the tag of Virgil suited the wretched situation into which this Government had brought us. He told us that he had just attended a very private meeting of his Tory colleagues when Mr Anthony Barber, the hapless Chancellor, had been obliged to listen to the assorted wisdom poured forth by the MPs.

The hard money school, Sir Simon said, brayed loudly and called for a deflationary Budget. On this occasion, the three wise men, Ridley, Body and Biffen, and their star Powell, were joined by no less a personage than Mr Hugh Fraser from Stafford and Stone. There was, it is rumoured, much talk also of negative egalitarianism, though it is feared that Mr Barber knew not the meaning of such highflown words — and neither, I suspect, did most of the MPs.

Sporty Mr Tom King of Bridgwater and Mr Winston Churchill from Stretford astounded the other fellows by saying that the banking houses should restrict the facilities for overdrafts and that the Chancellor should stop allowing tax reliefs on those facilities that had already been granted.

For Mr King I•cannot speak, though he wears a jaunty piece of suiting to the Club and is always well attired on the field for cricket. But as for Mr Churchill; tush, Sir, say I. It could be that his circumstances have much changed since his days in Oxenford, but his Scout in the ancient College of Christ Church avows that tax relief on overdrafts was a matter of some importance to the young Winston. "Lorks, gramercy," says the faithful Scout, "there was the issue of the butts of malmsey and the tax relief on these alone provided victuals for the whole of Peckwater one single term."

Perhaps, like his illustrious forebear, Mr Churchill is toying with the thought of becoming a Whig, though whether Mr Thorpe of North Devon, would want him on his benches is a doubtful matter. And in any event, talk of banking, it is said, at this time causes Mr Thorpe some little pain.

Warden Ostrich

Now that it is manifest that Mr Harold Wilson, the leader of the Ruffian's Party, will never again inhabit Downing Street, there has been much speculation about his future plans. The insupportable labour of doing nothing being too great for him, it had been supposed that he also would return to the city of the dreaming spires and a lobby grew on his behalf that he should take up residence at All Souls'. After Warden Sparrow, the argument went, a Warden Ostrich might be no bad thing.

However, noting that the Ruffian's Leader had taken to wearing purple hose beneath his breeches and buckle shoes to boot, I made some subtle inquiry at the Club and near to Lambeth Palace. In truth, it seems, Mr Wilson is to be the next Archbishop of Canterbury.

The Town is well pleased with this news, though Mr Norman St John-Stevas from Chelmsford (who also wears violet hose and buckle boots) and Mr William van Straubenzee from Wokingham (who wears black hose and purple boots) expressed some disappointment. They were told, however, by the Prime Minister that it was necessary to place a Ruffian man in the See of Cantuar and so the deed was sealed.

Which brings me to a complaint of my friend Sir Simon who was being particularly episcopal about the behaviour of some of the MPs in the Ruffian's Party. He is especially distressed by the manners of one Mr Dennis Skinner from Bolsover (which seems a likely and appropriate name).

This Mr Skinner, protesting always that he would die in the cause of liberty and free speech, never will allow others to speak freely in the Chamber at the Club. Only last week, Sir Simon says, Mr Russell Johnston, a mildmannered Whig from Inverness, sought some clarification on a point of policy. As he rose from his seat, the Ruffian Skinner, who was seated immediately before him, rose also from his place (which is strictly contrary to the rules of the Club) and shaking his fist in the gentle Scotsman's face, bellowed about going to Strasbourg for the money.

Now it is true that Mr Johnston catches the occasional packet from Dover and hies himself hence to Alsace on important business for the Club. It is also true that there is the question of some small remuneration on these trips and the unquestionable benefit of something called 'duty free Scotch' to which, as a Scotsman, the MP is surely entitled.

How this should allow Mr Skinner the right to bellow and prance defeats both Sir Simon and myself. Were Mr Skinner more intelligent, he would look almost like Mr Andrew Faulds from Smethwick, who is also a great bellower. But at least he does not possess so low a brow as Mr Skinner and, furthermore, has taken some thespian training.

If I thought that any of the fellows in the Ruffian's Party could read, 1 would refer them to the words of our new and highly skilled poet, Mr William Cowper, "How much a dunce that has been sent to roam Excels a dunce that has been kept at home." Perchance, Mr Cowper has sent me a paragraph penned some time ago by my cousin, Mr Joseph Addison.

So pertinent seem the words of my cousin that I quote them. "There cannot a greater judgement befall a country than such a dreadful spirit of division as rends a Government into two distinct peoples and makes them greater strangers and more adverse to one another than if they were actually two different nations. The effects of such a division are pernicious to the last degree . . . it sinks the virtue of the nation, and . . . destroys even common sense." Now, Mr Edward Heath, say fie and fiddle faddle if you dare.