Tuesday
The housing debate at Bournemouth, as you may have noticed, took a heated turn, and it behoves me to confess my part in the affair. I have for some years been in the habit of carrying with me a little bottle of the elixir sold by the Elves of Rockingham Forest – add a couple of drops of that to your hipflask and you’ll last through the dreariest all-night sitting.
It so happened that I met Tim Farron in the refreshment queue before the debate and, discerning that he was in need of a tonic, handed him the bottle, saying: "Add a drop of that to your coffee and you’ll get a standing ovation." At this point I was distracted by a couple of popsies who wanted to take selfies with me, and when I eventually turn back to Farron it was just in time to see him necking the last of the elixir.
“Are you all right, Farron?” I asked concernedly, only for him to assure me that he felt "Flipping great". He then stormed into the hall like a tiger that had just noticed an unattended lamb. You will remember what happened next – "Spawn of Thatcher," "Beelzebub’s Brownies" and all the rest of it.
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