Westminster Corridors
My friend Captain Freepen, who disguises his present Decay by visiting the Wenches of the Town only by way of humour, tells me that the other night he with Sir Simon d'Audley was driven to St James's Square where they encountered a lady of easy virtue dressed from head to Foot in mourning.
When asked by Sir Simon if these widow's weeds made it not a little Improper for her thus to ply her trade, she declared that far from being a widow she had never been married. An agreeable Squire was exactly what she sought, the saucy Wench added, winking at Freepen.
The reason for her black muslin, she explained, was that she had put her daintily shod crepe Foot in it by declaring the date of the forthcoming Election and incurring the wrath of Mr Harold Wilson (who had hitherto greatly favoured her with glances and sweet sentiments) who does not want an early Election and feels he is being forced into one by unruly elements on the left of the Ruffian's Party. Now let it be remembered that the Dainty Foot was once the standard bearer of the Tribune Group of Ruffians. His former friends, fearing that the Prime Minister will seek to soldier on at the Club without a majority until next year when, having been the occupant of Number Ten for a full twelve months and an unrivalled third term in office, he will say "Atoms" (a French word he picked up on a day trip to Giscard) "I have done my best for an ungrateful nation" and retire with his Lady and the gracious flower arranger the Duchess of Faulkender to the Groves of Academe, suggested (the former friends, that is) that Mr Foot "Blow the Gaff," as Mr Eric Heffer so quaintly put it. The Gaff being blown, the argument went, Mr Wilson would be forced to go to the country on October 3 or else look very foolish. This was all very annoying for Mr Wilson who had been preparing to tell the TUC this week why moderation was needed, why they should be patient with their wage claims, and why they should wait for a glorious revolution when the Isles of Stilly would run red with the true blood of Ruffianism.
Our beloved Leader well knew that the lunatic fringe in the Cabinet, to name but Master Anthony Berm, thought that the Ruffians could achieve a working majority at the Club through an October coup. At one time he had thought so too. But then someone reported that Mr Edward Heath had retired to Morningcloud in the firm belief that the Tories would lose in October. This information gave Mr Wilson pause for thought. For everyone knows that the Tory Leader has no political instincts whatever. The Duchess said that it was all a plot to get rid of Harold and put dreadful Mr James Callaghan in Downing Street. "But Jim is my loyal friend," said the Prime Minister trying to look incredu lous. It was at this point that the Dainty Foot saw fit to blow the Gaff. Which was in fact much to the relief of Mr Jeremy Thorpe who, bored with the vacation, had hired a wondrous machine known as a Hovercraft and was even then huffing and puffing along the South Coast blowing sand in the eyes of the already confused electorate.
When asked by compassionate Mr Cyril Smith from Rochdale why he allowed the craft to churn up the sand in the faces of innocent women and children, Mr Thorpe replied cogently that he did not want the public to see how manifestly tatty and without substance the Liberals were. 'But I have great substance," protested the gargantuan MP. "One barrage balloon does not a summer make," retorted the Whig Leader, remembering the immortal line of his childhood sweetheart Lady Megan.
Freepen pointed out the other day that whenever a crisis looms, the three Party Leaders an take to the water. This is indeed a curious phenomenon. Mr Wilson, it will be recalled,
tends to fall into the water with his dog Paddy. Mr Heath fouls the propellors of fishing craft in Ramsgate Harbour by not marking his mooring lines. And the absurd Mr Thorpe tries to pretend he is a swallow by hovering. Could any of my readers who is versed in psychology explain
this?
Tom Puzzle
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