Once upon a time in north Devon I was briefly acquainted with Jeremy Thorpe. To be precise, I ran against him as the Labour candidate in the 1970 general election. At the time, being young and impressionable, I rather admired him. Indeed, even with the benefit of hindsight, I retain a sneaking regard for the Jeremy of old. For all his sins, and as we now know they were many, he was witty, charming, charismatic and possessed a fundamental streak of decency. He was sound on issues such as race, the death penalty and membership of the Common Market (as it was then known), none of which endeared him to most of his constituents in what was a highly marginal constituency.
What’s more, he had galvanised politics in sleepy north Devon. The electoral turnout was an impressive 85% and a crowd of several thousands attended the eve-of-poll meetings and the declaration of the result. He had enormous energy. Each day in the final week of the campaign, he would tour the country by helicopter, visiting perhaps four or five constituencies in places as far away as north Wales, Manchester and Orpington. By evening, he’d be back in time for a whistlestop tour of local villages, chalking up another three or four meetings a night.
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