Westminster Corridors

How pleasing is the contemplation of the lowly steps our almighty leader takes in seeking to conduct us to his heavenly mansion. In plain and apt parable, similitude and allegory, our great Prime Minister enforces the doctrine of our salvation. He steals from the rich to give to the poor and the Opposition, instead of receiving what they cannot oppose, are offended at the presumption of the chief Ruffian in being wiser than they.

Mr Heath and his friends dare not raise their heads in consideration of this subtle Mr Wilson, because they see not why he should be more exalted than themselves. The Prime Minister is therefore bound to exert a power which is capable of conquering the prepossession of their narrow and mean conceptions.

Well, that is what Mr Wilson would have us believe and the above words, though penned by me, are in fact attributable to Master Joe Haines, who as chief press secretary to the Prime Minister told them to me, on something called "lobby terms," though as we were not in the Lobby when we conversed, I see not why they should be unattributable.

Confounded

My good friend Sir Simon d'Audley and I have been confounded this past week by the presumption both of the Leader of the Ruffian's Party and of the Head of Tory House at the Club. Mr Wilson seems to behave as though he won a great victory in last month's divisive and inconclusive Election. He talks of "mandates for a full programme" and of "making the nation's veins flow with the red blood of Ruffianism," forgetting utterly that although he has a minuscule majority of seats over the Tories he is, for all that, the nominal head only of a minority Government.

It seems to have escaped Mr Wilson's notice that fewer people voted Ruffian than Tory and that, furthermore, if you add to the Tory vote that for the Whigs and the other minority parties on the lunatic fringe, then the Ruffians hardly have a mandate at all. Which is not to say that the Tories have one either.

Contenders

Poor, homeless Mr Heath, who has been voicing the opinion that Mr Wilson is a sick man and not fully in control of his senses, is clearly finding lodging on the banks of the Thames something of a strain. Someone, Sir Simon says, ought to tell him that he is tired and deserves a rest and that, in truth, the Tory Party does not need his services as Leader any more.

The plain fact is that though many would steal Mr Heath's mantle, none has the courage to say so openly and thus the more ambitious Tories skulk in corridors and corners of the Smoking Room plotting and looking wistful. Sir Simon and I have long considered Mr Peter Walker (a hard-working office boy who grew up to be Secretary of State for Trade and Industry) and Mr Michael Heseltine (the blond bomber who wanted to be Miss World and became instead Minister for Aerospace) to be the two nastiest and most ambitious members of Mr Heath's team.

There now emerges another contender for the coveted title of "Tory turncoat of the year." He is pasty, tall and lean — so thin, in fact, that you would not see him when he stands sideways except for his abnormally large nose. His name, my readers will already have guessed, is Mr David Howell who because of his youth has high hopes of soon leading the Tories and he makes a point, to this end, of cultivating all the younger MPs. Only last night, Sir Simon heard this willowy fellow saying to a group of admirers: "By having a national Government we get rid of Ted and then I can take over the Party. It is a long-term thing, but we must make our position clear now."

"But can you do it?" enquired a new, little Tory who was anxious to make a good impression. "Do it?" replied Mr Howell. "I do it every day in Guildford." At which point Mr Norman St John Stevas rounded the corner and confirmed the truth of his friend's words.

Mr St John Stevas, whose predilection for wearing purple hose is well known to my readers, was on his way to Rome to see if there was some means by which a Catholic Cardinal could become an Anglican Archbishop.

The group then adjourned to the Strangers' Bar, one of the gayer spots in the Club, just in time to see Mr Laurie Pavitt (the Ruffian's MP for South Brent) kissing Mr Gerry Fitt (an Ulsterman who has Ruffian tendencies) upon both cheeks. The Tories giggled nervously (and one or two a little hopefully) until I explained to them that Mr Wilson had just made Mr Pavitt a Whip.

The young ones

These osculatory antics are not nearly so embarrassing as the behaviour of the new intake of members at the Club. They are all brash and very young. They talk too much and drink too much. On the Ruffian's side, they have learnt in a matter of days the art of prancing and bellowing which took their betters years to acquire. On the Tory side they are all plastic and look like identikit merchant bankers (which is, of course, what most of them were). I try not to look at the Whigs and the others.

There is a new Ruffian from Ormskirk who goes by the highly pretentious name of Mr Robert Kilroy-Silk. He is 31 and of quite unprepossessing appearance. His only claim to fame is that he unseated the undesirable Mr Harold Soref, at the Election.

This Ruffian fellow, asked by the media some two days after his introduction to the Club what he thought of the place, declared that it was boring and childish, that it served very little purpose, that he was going to reform it, and that in any event he would be Prime Minister in fifteen years.

On hearing this, my friend Sir Simon raised an eyebrow cynically and murmured: "Not a gentleman." But then, as I observed, very few members at the Club nowadays are.