I came across this diary by chance. Perhaps it is fictional, or maybe it is the genuine thoughts and actions of a backwoodsman Tory MP.
This will be published in instalments, and I would ask you to sign up if you want to receive more entries from Fred’s Diary. The starting point for the first entry is some weeks before the 2017 general election.
I am sure that Fred does not really want to be identified, and I am not going to suggest any MP as a candidate.
The last great Englishman, or the diary of a dimwit.
Friday 21st April 2017
I’ve never really kept a diary before, but the historian who is helping me, Dr Anya Sarkowski, says it would improve my writing style if I write regularly. She suggested keeping a diary, and in these interesting times I thought it was a good idea. Dr Sarkowski, or Anya as I will call her from now on, is helping to prepare the biography of my father I have wanted to write for years. I already have a title, ‘The Last Great Englishman’, which is from an old story in The Telegraph. We have been working through his papers. To be more precise it is mostly Anya doing that as Parliament is in session and I am in London during the week and have constituency business at the weekend. Anya says to be emotionally as well as intellectually honest in my diaries. But I am not used to expressing emotion easily.
With the General Election to be held on the 8th of June, this is going to be a very exciting time. I am looking forward to an increased majority for the party, and Theresa May seems to be making all the right noises. Under Corbyn Labour will be unelectable, thank God. Meanwhile, I will try to position myself into positions of influence. That would be one in the eye of the old man. I intend to become the next great Englishman. To make a statement I have bought a classic British car, a Mark 2 Jaguar like the one in Inspector Morse, only this one is blue. It should show a man of taste who is also in favour of tradition and workmanship.
Saturday 22nd April 2017
My usual surgery today, and, by and large, the usual suspects turned up. After dealing with a complaint about dog mess and another about gassing badgers I had a much more interesting talk with one of my constituents, a Mrs Astrid Ferrao-Longly. An absolutely stunning woman of dusky complexion looking like something off the cover of Vogue but ten years on. When she said she was Brazilian I started to get a hard on, thinking about a landing strip of pubes above those long and shapely legs. It seems she has a daughter back in Brazil, being looked after by the grandmother, and she has not been given permission to bring the sprog over. If I can have her grateful to me, maybe I can have a poke below that landing strip. I’ll have a go at encouraging the Home Office to loosen things up a bit. I took all the details, and I’ll get my admin girl, Minty, to make it look proper. Compared to the glorious Astrid, Minty is big, dull and frumpy. I only keep her on because she comes from a good family, one of the inbred local ones.
There were a couple of other complaints but they are too boring to mention. Duncan Williams, the chairman of the local association, had a chat with me afterwards, mostly about how the members were dropping dead with depressing regularity and no-one was joining. Once we would have needed several charabancs for an outing, now the members would fit in a large taxi. If the membership falls any further we will have to sell the building, as it is running at a big loss. He also had a moan about not being able to hire eastern European pickers for his strawberry farm. I told him that he should have thought of that before he voted for Brexit. He told me that I had come out in favour of Brexit too, which I did, but only because I was persuaded that the constituency wanted it, not because I believed in it, even for a single second. Sometimes you have to go with the flow.
I asked Duncan about Astrid Ferrao Longly and he whistled softly. He said something about Lady Muck of Muck Hall. Considering Duncan is solid squirearchy I found that a bit rich. Anyhow, he told me about her. She is the trophy wife of Trevor Longly, the internet billionaire. He’d bought Underhill Manor about a dozen years ago. It had been restored back in the 1930s by a man who made a million selling street furniture, whatever that is. This feller employed some tradesmen who were unemployed during the Great Depression and made a fantasy castle with some medieval bits. Apparently it was open to the public until Longley bought it. He had put twelve foot fences around the place, supposedly to keep the deer out, but more likely to stop the hoi-polloi wandering over his patch of turf. Some of Duncan’s land butted up to the Underhill estate and it was not a good relationship. It occurs to me that if I can sort his wife’s daughter a visa I will have a rich and influential friend.
I had lunch at The Cross Keys with my agent, Edward Threepwood, to discuss the election and the tactics we should use. I told him that Central Office would let us know what to say and not say. We only have to keep our heads and this one is in the bag. The polls are all pointing to a big win. Then Edward said that it didn’t really matter as they could pin a blue rosette on a shaved baboon and get it elected in this constituency. I decided to laugh that one off. If he tries that a third time I’ll sack him.
I had a perfectly decent bit of steak with all the trimmings. You can’t expect fancy food to be edible in this neck of the woods, so best to stick to something simple. I reckon Edward regretted choosing the Moroccan Tangine from the sour expression on his face. Then I drove back home to the wife, the children being away at school or university. At least the house isn’t in this dump of a constituency, though that means a thirty mile drive to get home. The house is in the constituency of my neighbouring MP, another Tory, N J. I was at Eton with him. He was a bit more academic than me, and gets more attention in the press than I do. He has the plausible manner of a con-man and is very tall, so he stands out in a crowd. I’ll have a word with Edward about that next time we meet. I need to get better known.
I like the life of a gentleman farmer, having enough land to grow a few EU subsidised crops, thanks to the CAP. And there is plenty of land to have a few horses for the good lady wife and the girl and quad bikes for the boys. I have no idea what we are growing this year, so I suppose I had better have a word with Preece, the farm manager.
Caroline, or the Good Lady Wife, (GLW), as I usually call her, was a bit offhand with me when I got back. It seems that Rupert, the older boy, has been in trouble at school. She’s had the head of house call her, warning that one more incident and he’ll be expelled. I said I’d have a word with the feller and get it sorted. That will have to be personal, not Minty, and I could do without the aggro at the moment. At least the younger boy, Gerald behaves himself. The evening meal was some vegetarian crap that was no doubt very healthy and full of fibre. Thankfully I had the steak to see me through. I think she needs more to do, and less influence from lifestyle gurus.
Then we had to get dressed and went off to attend some god-awful concert at the Abbey church. I can’t tell you how much I hate Mozart. Give me Mantovani any day. And then there all those ghastly local worthies whose hands one has to shake. And you have to make polite conversation and smile. Even the alcohol has to be taken in moderation. With an election coming up I dare not be drunk in public, and that is easily the best way of getting through such an evening. The car wasn’t going so smoothly on the way back. Will have to get someone to look at it. Had a couple of tumblers of decent Scotch when I got back, taking one upstairs as a nightcap.
And so to bed, the one in the spare bedroom. I need to sleep and the GLW snores like walrus.
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