It’s about knowing when to jump

Lord Longford was also a delightful eccentric. Perhaps because he possessed a serene aristocratic self-confidence, he did not care what the world thought of him and was happy to tell stories against himself. Just after 1945, as a junior minister at the War Office, he visited Germany. The plane door opened, a greeting party was in attendance, but there were no stairs. “This is ridiculous,” Frank thought. “Men of my age were recently enduring the rigours of combat. If I just stand here, I’ll look pompous and self-important.” So he jumped. At that moment, the stairs arrived from beneath the plane. Frank hit them and ended up sprawling on the tarmac with a broken nose.

Ten years earlier, about to renounce his Tory allegiance and proclaim himself a Labour supporter, he decided that it was time to leave the Carlton Club. So he asked to see the chairman, who turned out to be sitting with some other elderly gentlemen. “What can I do for you, m’boy?” “Well, sir, I want to resign from the club.” “Resign from the club? You’ve only just joined.” “But I don’t agree with the policies of the [Baldwin] government.” “Of course you don’t. None of us do, they’re a pack of Bolsheviks. Why, if everyone who disagreed with this government resigned, there’d be no club left. Now, have a glass of port.” Later on, he had another interview and pressed his point. That fact that his wife was about to publish a book was the conclusive argument. As a final word, the chairman told him that if he ever got into trouble abroad or anywhere, “remember you have friends here”. Frank thought that this was a truly Christian response.

His father, Brigadier the Lord Longford, fought at Gallipoli. He believed that officers of his seniority should not carry weapons, so he strode into the attack with only a rolled umbrella. He was heard rebuking a junior officer for ducking under gunfire. “Don’t do that. Sets a bad example to the men.” Those were his lastknown words. His body was never recovered. He is buried in one on the mass graves around the Gallipoli battlefields. Like father, like son.