Westminster Corridors
There is nothing which more denotes a Great Mind than the abhorrence of Envy and Detraction. This Passion reigns more among Politicians than among any other Set of Men. As there are none more ambitious of Fame than those conversant in Politics, it is very natural for those who have not succeeded there to depreciate the Works of those who have.
Thus it is greatly distressing to see our beloved Prime Minister assailed and vilified on all sides as he leads the Nation through these turbulent times. As his bullet-headed press secretary, Mr Joe HaMes, is wont to say: "I have never met a kinder or more generous man than Mr Wilson." And "Amen" say I. Furthermore, as those like the Duchess of Falkender and I who know him well can vouchsafe, Mr Wilson is a truly humble man with a Great Mind.
Take the issue of the Referendum on the Common Market. To hear some Members of the Club speak, you would suppose that our Leader has other than our best interests at heart. Even a few in the Ruffian Party can be heard to question Mr Wilson's motives.
Only the other day, I came upon the Duchess in the Peeresses' Robing Room at the Club. She was scrubbing her Coronet with some patented-Co-op-staybright-Duraglit in between 'doing' for my Lord Sutton Benger and my Lord Trysull who were in the Town for the day with a lot of dirty laundry that needed airing. Grasping my arm, she said: "Thomas" (the Duchess is very formal these days), "I must tell you about the Referendum."
The beauteous flower arranger of Downing Street then led me to a closet marked 'Secret' where Mr Wilson was hard at work on the draft of the document. "Who goes there?" challenged the faithful Haines. The Duchess dismissed him with an imperious nod and picked up a galley proof of the Referendum. "Tell no one where you got this," she muttered, disappearing into the folds of her ermine and crimson St Michael brylon and cotton drip dry robes.
Such is the import of this matter that I feel I must reprint the very words of the Referendum. The document starts with a load of nonsense about "I, Harold, King and protector . . . to the serfs of the British Isles" etc etc. But then: "Do you wish: 1, to remain a serf within the United States of Europe with no freedom or identity, with viral infections and the constant stink of garlicky foreigners round the place?
Or 2, to follow the said Harold (King and Protector) into a promised land where there will be milk and honey and Wincarnis and Marmite soldiers and oil?"
All of which may seem bland enough, except for that crucial three letter word at the end. Oil. Therein lies the Ian Smith in the woodpile. So I sought out the Duchess in the Laundry Room where she told me that my surmise was correct. Harold had been negotiating with the Sheiks the terms of Britain's membership of the United States of Araby. In return for a gallon of petrol a week for Harold's new 50 cc poke-about Funbike, we would give the Arabs Northern Ireland, the whole of offshore Scotland, and Bexley-Sidcup together with its incumbent Member. As an .additional concession, won after several hours of hard bargaining, the Rt Hon. Harold Wilson, PC, FRS, MP, Prime Minister of Great Britain (for the fourth time) would be known by the courtesy title of Glum Pasha.
The Duchess's eyes burned with pride and passion as she told of the Leader's triumphant negotiations. "Mind you," she hastily added, "I am no Arab lover" as a number of Jewish Members of the Ruffian Administration happened to pass by. "But as Harold, oops, I mean Glum Pasha, will explain in the Chamber at the Club, we must move with the times."
What, though, I casually enquired, of the North Sea oil bonanza promised by the Ruffians at the last Election? By 1980, I reminded her, Harold and Denis and Roy and someone whimsically known as Mr Varley had promisd that we would have all the oil we needed from our very own shores. "Don't be silly," the Duchess replied, "that was just pragmatism." And that is a new word for it, I thought.
Tom Puzzle
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