AFTERTHOUGHT

JOHN WELLS

In order to reassure those who believe every- thing they read in the papers. I should perhaps say by way of introduction that the following document, found blowing about in the wind in Whitehall, may not be authentic.

To: The Right Hon H. Wilson From: 542716 Sgt. E. Grimble I have the honour to submit my report, prepared in collaboration with 231429 In-

spector Trimfittering, on the book handed to me at approximately 2130 hrs last even- ing in the lounge of No 10 Downing Street as you were partaking of a light repast

of Saltifresh Pilchard Fingers and Frozen Broccoli Tips in front of the television set in the company of your lady wife. In the interests of your security and personal safety we examined the article in question in the sandbagged presidential suite of the deep- level Whitehall RSG, and made the following observations. (1) The book is approximately eight inches by six by one and one eighth inches, and weighs, or so I should judge, in the region of one and a half pounds. (2) The book is entitled Pragmatic Premier An Intimate Portrait of Harold Wilson by Ernest Kay and is published by one L. Frewin.

Furthermore I have to report that both Trim- fittering and myself found the book extremely boring. It also contains two somewhat snide

references to ourselves, as well as implying that you were speculating on the subject of Trim-

fittering's accommodation some time before your elevation to the Premiership, 'consider- ing . . . where his personal bodyguard would live while he was asleep in the bungalow

(there was obviously no room for him there): On one occasion the author claims to have met us buying your newspaper and to have put the somewhat trite question 'How are you today?' He then quotes Trimfittering as reply-

ing 'Terrible' and implies that we in some way resented accompanying your good self round twenty-one holes on the golf course.

The second anecdote is more distasteful. He relates that you were once enjoying a cup of tea on the little green outside the Methodist Sunday School in the Scillies, when 'a detec- tive' emerged from the hall. I can only assume it was Trimfittering. 'Sir,' he is said to have observed, 'the Professor nearly got it between the eyes a minute ago. He was about to lift his leg against your rucksack !"Proffie'—I quote verbatim from the text—' "Proffie," said the Prime Minister "why ever did you do that?

Don't you like me any more?" The Professor wagged his tail. Harold Wilson patted him.' I should perhaps explain that the Professor in question is Mr Kay's dog, but Trimfittering opined that there might be some concealed reference to certain left wing persons.

It was at this point, Prime Minister, that Trimfittering began to smell a rat, and took the liberty of instituting investigations among friends in the Force belonging to the Metro- politan Police Booklovers' Guild. The man

Frewin apparently has a record. Not only has he published in the past a number of 'tongue- in-cheek' or 'satirical' books, including the would-be humorous but in fact flat and taste- less Wit and Wisdom of the Duke of Edin- burgh, but also a rude book about your good

self. Employing journalistic techniques of a certain scurrilous magazine with whose title I would not reck to soil my lips nor indeed the virgin feint ruled on which I write, the volume contains a number of 'intimate' snaps of your- self in the company of your lady wife and of various dignitaries, each of which has been disfigured with an offensive 'bubble' or pseudo- humorous caption appearing to emanate from yourself in the manner of Biffo the Bear's droll observations in the comic papers.

Armed with this information, Trimfittering and I have been able to unearth what may well

be a ghastly plot on the part of the urbane publishing gentleman. As usual in such cases, an innocent but gullible man is involved. I refer, of course, to Mr Ernest Kay. Doubtless a worthy person, rejoicing in the lap of a large and affectionate family, most of whom can be glimpsed in the Kodak Vestpocket snaps included in the book climbing over yourself and your lady wife, he clearly much enjoys the vicarious gloriole, as the Inspector put it, accruing to him socially as a result of his acquaintance with yourself and Madam. This would seem to be corroborated by his inclu- sion in the book of any trivial scrap of con- versation, any brief but boring note, and any small sign of recognition you have deemed fit to grant him over the years since the first time he saw you 'darting quickly among the cold meats.' His copy of Purpose in Politics, he claims, you inscribed 'With best wishes,' his wife's 'With warm regards'!

Permitting this garrulous chum to 'spill the beans,' the man Frewin, I fear, may well have struck a dreadful blow at your future pros- pects, utilising Mr Kay in his campaign of waggery and fun-poking. I pass speedily over the most embarrassingly 'satirical' passages: 'He is not just a British Socialist, not by any means : he is an international Socialist, the World's No One [sic] Socialist, and he is accepted as such by the Socialist parties of the whole of Western Europe,' etc. But more is in store: on one page, for example, Mr Kay recalls you 'telling amusing stories—clean stories, I should add, for neither Harold nor Mary Wilson has the slightest interest in any other kind,' and then, later on, lifts the lid off an informal New Year's Dance at the Hampstead Garden Suburb Institute in 1950.

"Honour your partners" came the call and Harold marched up to Marjorie'—Mr Kay's better half—`and gave an upward "V" sign with the first two fingers of his right hand. "Isn't Harold awful," Mary whispered to me. He repeated the action several times; then Mary called to him "Harold! Harold! Behave." Quick as a flash he replied, "This is quite all right, Pie, Mr Churchill is always doing it."' On a later occasion, Mr Kay relates, he kissed Mrs Wilson good night as she was leaving their home. 'Quick as a flash, Harold said to me:

"You'd better not kiss me, Ernest, not while the Vassall Tribunal is sitting."' In a later chapter, 'Fish fingers at No 10,' he blames

your lady wife for creating what he calls her 'apron and curlers' image. 'If a reporter tele- phones,' he informs us, 'she would say, "I'm just doing the washing and wearing my curlers."' Strange indeed, Prime Minister.

It has been whispered about, Prime Minister, that you cultivate the company of a small and excruciatingly dull circle of friends. I fear the book will do little to scotch that particu- lar duck, as the Inspector puts it. I have taken the liberty of alerting the Book Seizing Brigade, and await your further instructions.