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“In Europe, democracy is a falsehood. I do not know where it will end, but it cannot end in a quiet old age."

- Klemens von Metternich​

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“Owing to the storms presently occurring within the north Atlantic,” the Counting Officer was saying amidst Cornish-tinged catcalls, “the arrival of ballot boxes from Scilly – and the subsequent announcement of the results of the Referendum in Devonwall – will take place as soon as this final verification of votes has taken place.”

The television was switched on mute by an unseen aide. Against all expectations, the Prime Minister was smiling broadly. Of course, it would have been better to have been away from London and the grim austerity of Downing Street (outside, in the early light of dawn, the workmen had begun to arrive to patch-up the still-smoke blackened ruins of No. 10).

As if the IRA thought that would have changed anything, he thought, losing a leg in a mortar attack doesn’t make me a martyr, any more than one decent speech turns Straw into Cicero.

The scene on the television had switched to the scenes of the Union campaign rally at Earl’s Court. The Leader of the Opposition was beaming on the stage, hopefully realising that it wasn’t just applause ringing in his ears. Beside him, Meadowcroft clapped along enthusiastically. The Prime Minister found himself re-reading the Chancellor’s resignation letter, delivered a few minutes after confirmation that the Europhiles had – for the second time – won the day.

“You can fight him,” the Home Secretary whispered in his ear, “he’s got basically no support outside the Coal Belt.”

Alan’s grin remained fixed.

“There’s little point Gwyneth,” he replied, as the Federasts crossed their arms in what appeared to be a Hogmanay inspired rendition of An die Freude.

Fuckers probably can’t even sing it in German, the Prime Minister thought.

Dunwoody was looking somewhat taken aback.

“Why the fuck not, Alan?” she persisted, “You’ve turned this party – hell – you’ve turned me around to finally fight for truth and democracy in the UK, and you’re just going to sit back and allow Michael to take us kicking and screaming into the Neu Schilling?”

The Prime Minister wasn’t listening. It had been a funny couple of decades, all told. Indeed, yesterday (and goodness me, hadn’t the Express taken a perverse delight in pointing it out?) had marked twenty years to the day of him entering the House for the first time. Poor old Russell, he recalled, no need for him to have been knocked down like that. As it was, the Inverness Constituency Party had turned to him and – by accident or design – it was he who had been the symbol of the Liberal revival as Baby of the House.

All told, it had been a bitter, fractious Parliament to have ended up in. He’d stayed away from Enoch and Tony’s Flying Circus, thankfully, but Whitelaw hadn’t been able to achieve more than a fraction of what he could have done, and when Healey dropped the writs in 1978, it had been the Monetarists who had paid the price of slavish devotion. With Labour on the verge of civil war and the Tories being blamed for everything, it had been he who had pointed out to Ridley that ‘neo-Liberal’ contained the world ‘Liberal’. The defections, when they came, had been inevitable. Jeremy going when he did had been a blessing, and he and the Man of Steel were at the very least still talking to one another after he’d pipped him to the leadership.

The surge had looked to have been a damp squib with a poor second place in ’82, but then the balloon had gone up over the Malvinas, Muskie had been nowhere to be found, and all of a sudden, he had been standing on the step in front of the famous black door, the youngest Prime Minister since Lord Liverpool.

He’d felt a bit like Admiral Scheer when Bruges had come around and the cacophony for another plebiscite had become too loud to ignore. He’d created an effective, well-oiled machine, and it seemed like an act of supreme foolhardiness to have thrown the whole thing against the wall, even if it was a wall that could – with enough force – be destroyed as well. He’d hated the sneers of the mandarins of course, but even with the best of efforts and some fluent conversations about Wanger, Strauß had refused to budge an iota on the single currency.

That had been enough.

The television had switched to the miserable faces at ‘Out’ HQ at the NEC. Sykes was speaking, he’d put in a great effort, all things considered, but it hadn’t been quite enough. Perhaps it was never going to be. He hadn’t really wanted to put a businessman in charge of the campaign at all. Thatcher would have been better (her support for the previous poll being an advantage), or even Biffin, but Maurice had been ‘apolitical’ that and ‘above the fray’ this, and in the end – the gander doctors had won out.

Dunwoody turned the sound back on.

“…and though we have lost the day today,” Sykes said, his Yorkshire drawl slipping though, “we must take solace from the fact that the battle is far from won. With the forces of the media, the corporations and almost the entire establishment against us, we have shown Brussels that we will not be satisfied with the stat…”

“Who wrote this drivel?”

The Employment Secretary snorted with derision as the Chairman continued his sweaty, almost incoherent diatribe. Even Radford had the good grace to look embarrassed.

“We’ll fight on.”

“You may wish to Frank, but I will not.”

That much was true. The whole thing had been entirely right and proper obviously, but he was just so tired. AJP’s death, his old supervisor, had hit hard, and eight years of fractious meetings, getting the economy back towards something approaching that of a developed nation, and being patronised by Barre and Tindemans would have broken many others. Nope – it had been long enough.

It was going to be hard to keep the Liberal Party together now. There had been too many bridges burned, and Meadowcroft or Penhaligon – the only candidates with a realistic chance of victory – were never going to keep the Unmentionables onside, himself included.

Others would be able to carry on the campaign, of course. Irritable Duncan Syndrome’s “Democratic Alliance”, Knapman’s “BIP”, that Jimmy Goldsmith and Taki one, whatever it was called. He needed some time out of course, that lectureship at Princeton was an attractive prospect.

The Prime Minister (which he still was, at least for another week or so…) – had a resignation speech to draft.

All being said, Alan Sked thought, as the media began to set up outside, it had been a funny old time.
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