Happy days
Jo Grimond
Warrington Many years ago I wrote an account for the Spectator of a meeting addressed by Adlai Stevenson at Boise, Idaho, during a sweep through the West on his presidential campaign. I am reminded of it on a visit to Warrington. Roy Jenkins resembles Governor Stevenson; their styles are an attractive blend of authority and diffidence. The Liberal-SDP alliance seems to have caught something of the pre-Kennedy euphoria; you almost expect to hear 'Happy Days Are Here Again', 'The Side-Walks of New York' and other Democrat tunes. Beneath the peaks of white baseball caps, familiar faces grin somewhat sheepishly like elderly fathers caught paddling at Brighton. Dick Crawshaw is chatting up his fellow Lancastrians. David Marquand is looking far from professorial. John Little is the only person I know who perfectly fits that hardy description 'bright-eyed and bushy-tailed'. They all actually seem better for their electioneering exercise. It astonishes me, as it did Adlai, to find anyone who actually seems to enjoy it.
We set off for a walk round the shops of Warrington led by Bill Rodgers. In the Palace of Westminster Mr Rodgers is a self-effacing, almost studious figure, but not so in the streets of Warrington. For him a microphone is like alcohol. He blossoms out as a mixture of the Pied Piper, the most raucous of bookmakers and a busker for the three-card trick. I seldom heard the instrument better handled, even by the Shetland auctioneer. Audience participation is encouraged. When a particularly awkward question is asked, he says: `Ah, I am very glad you asked that. I see Shirley Williams over there who is the greatest living expert on this subject.' Mrs Williams comes bounding forward, like a dog eager to retrieve a ball; Mr Rodgers produces her as though he had trained her himself. She does not let him down. She does indeed retrieve the ball and several others as well.
We move on. Mr Roper MP, perpetually busy, is to be seen sniffing the air with upraised nose; it twitches. Here comes John the Baptist in the unlikely disguise of the member for Caithness and Sutherland followed by the candidate himself leaping from hand-shake to hand-shake as genially as an avuncular Jeremy Thorpe.
Unlike Governor Stevenson, Roy appears to like electioneering and the Warrington people appear to like him. He is neither embarrassed nor over-dramatic. The performance is a mixture of sophistication and the warmth of Edward Lear. Roy himself slightly resembles Lear, and the Chairman of the Liberals, Mr Pincham, replete with umbrella to emphasise the suspicion all Southerners feel about Lancashire weather, does so even more; while an extensive aviary of Lear-like birds chatter about, as awash with badges as Quangle Wangle's hat.
The Social Democratic Party may have been hatched in the dusty quarrels of the old Labour Party; nevertheless it stands a good chance of taking the air like a butterfly and generating some freshness in politics. I write before the result of Warrington is known.1 am under no illusion about the outcome. I do not share the popular view that all politicians are villains (it would be surprising if I did). I do not think that the British are sunk in poverty. I believe that the Tories had a great chance. I think they have muffed it. I am not optimistic about the state of mind of the British. But there is a hope, not perhaps a very strong hope, that the SDP offer will catch on. What they can offer is that politics may again be exciting and enjoyable. Certainly they can hardly do worse than the present House of Commons, but if they were to rely on that negative argument alone, it would be a pity.
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