THE Bahamas’ second governor, Richard Fitzwilliam, himself described as “a rogue with piratical instincts”, took over the administration of the colony in 1734. Even then, a century after the pirates had been subdued, the Bahamas was still recognised as difficult. One historian concluded that as the Bahama islands “supported human life with difficulty they were destined to be settled eventually by desperate men.”

“Such a headstrong set of simple, ungovernable wretches were never convened in legislative capacity,” complained Fitzwilliam shortly after his arrival. Only five years before — September 29, 1729 — the Crown had created an elected House of Assembly. Tomorrow, 278 years after that complaint, residents of this same difficult colony celebrate 39 years of Independence from the Mother Country.

Today, we republish a speech delivered by Sir Geoffrey Johnstone at the East Nassau Rotary Club on October 23, 1997, on “Politics Westminster Style”.

It will bring back many memories of times past when that same roguish Bahamian logic breaks through at the most illogical times. His speech gives a flavour of those days when Bahamians could get a hearty laugh from the simple, unintended humour expressed by fellow citizens. Said Sir Geoffrey:

I HAVE somewhat daringly chosen as my topic “Politics Westminster Style”. By this, I mean the system of politics derived from and resembling that practised in the Mother of Parliaments, namely the Commons House of Parliament and the House of Lords at Westminster, but taken in the context of the Bahamas. I shall endeavour not to engage in partisan politics.

Aristotle in his great work-entitled “Politics” wrote: “Man is by nature a political animal.” As usual he was dead right. There are few relationships more paradoxical than that which exists between the elected Member of Parliament and his constituents. It is rather like two parties constantly engaged in courtship, but without the ennobling influence of either love or sex. Each party is seeking to gain something – from the other. That which they seek is endowed with the loftiest sentiments and pursued with the most ruthless determination.

Perhaps the most intriguing time of all in the Bahamas is the blessed event termed “Lection time” in the vernacular. This is the time for settling old scores. It is the time for getting even with your “Representa” for refusing to back that note at the bank, or perhaps even better, to negotiate an even larger loan at the bank; it is the time to bargain for a new car to replace the rotten old heap which you conned the candidate into buying for you just after the last election; it is the time to get an outboard motor for the old sail boat so you can get the fish to the market more quickly and thereby pay off the loan which the candidate backed for you “more swiffer”.

In short, this is the time when every man and every woman really counts for something. It is astonishing how many refrigerators wear out in the midst of an election, how many rooms suddenly start leaking, how many boats mysteriously sink and require to be salvaged, how many relatives die from causes unknown and must be buried forthwith.

Bahamians are a thirsty people. Perhaps it is our climate. At election time this thirst becomes quite unquenchable, especially in the Family Islands where campaigning is often done on a more personal basis. The candidate will be advised time and again to get a few of the boys together at “Uncle Kiah’s house”. It inevitably follows that there must be a little refreshment “to keep the boys together”. The corollary of this is no refreshment, no boys. Apparently this thirst is so compelling as to render “the boys” incapable of deciding where to mark their X without the tender administrations of the elixir which comes in a bottle marked “Robin Hood”.

The experienced candidate learns to deal with these compelling contingencies in a rough and ready way and to avoid putting himself in peril of the quite comprehensive laws dealing with bribery and treating. The neophyte enters into a nightmarish world the moment his proposed candidature is whispered about in the constituency.

I often think back on my first election as a candidate for what was then known as “the Eastern District” of New Providence. As soon as word got around that I would be running, long lines began forming at the House of Myers where my firm was then located. These stretched from the pavement outside the building all the way up the stairs into the office waiting room which looked like Basil Kelly’s office on the days when the mail boat arrived from Crooked Island and Acklins. I had instantly gained a popularity which bode well for my success in the forthcoming contest. It was all very encouraging. Everyone of these honest souls lived in the Eastern District.

Advice there was aplenty. I was astonished at the number of experts who had rushed to my aid and who avowed their intention to stay there throughout the upcoming conflict. It was amazing how many people knew me (even though I didn’t know them).

And I couldn’t quite figure out how it was that so many of them had “minded me” when I was a little boy – people I’d never seen in my life, as far as I could remember.

But there was an aura of sadness which overlay this exhilarating demonstration of public acceptance. The cruel hand of tragedy had been laid on so many of these lives. Relatives had suddenly been called to their maker; jobs had been lost, while others had been abandoned in order that there might be a complete devotion to my cause; children lay dying for want of medical attention; other children were denied the privilege of education. In the words of the ancient canticle “some were sick and some were sad, and some had lost the love they had.” But there was a strange universality about the remedy for all this calamity – it could all be cured, or at least alleviated, by that commodity which the Babylonians invented and the love of which the Good Book tells us is the root of all evil. I was to part with a good deal of it before that election was over.

And speaking of money, I must tarry a little longer on the election process. It is well known that in the last century the practice of buying votes at elections was common in North America and the West Indies, as also perhaps in Latin America. The practice stopped long ago in the more developed countries. But it clung on in the Bahamas until fairly recently, and still has not entirely ceased. I have always felt it to be a blot on the democratic process.

When Basil Kelly and I both entered the political arena in 1956, we made a pact with one another that we would not buy one single vote. Now in Basil’s case that was easy to understand, because Basil is a Harbour Island man, and, as everyone knows, Harbour Island men – with a few notable exceptions – are some of the meanest people in the world when it comes to parting with money!

And in my case I have never hidden my pride in my Scottish ancestry. But we had made this decision as a matter of principle and not as a matter of parsimony. It flew like a lead balloon. The late Sir Stafford Sands was fond of saying in his rasping voice: “It’s strange how many matters of principle turn out, on close examination, to be matters of principal.”

That was a view which was shared by the electorate who, of course, regarded the whole thing as a matter of principal.

We were both to suffer a good deal for this decision, but it was not, without its amusing side.

I remember a direct encounter with two reverend gentlemen who had attached themselves to me on the impulse of divine inspiration expressly and personally delivered from on high. One day they allowed that they “had to talk to me private”. It is a phrase which is pregnant with unmistakable meaning and which strikes terror into the heart of any candidate.

The place and hour were appointed and the meeting convened. After exchange of the usual trivia, I was asked “Now Chief, we gotta know how dis ting gonna go.”

I was not insensitive to the message which was being delivered, but replied with a brief outline of my personal manifesto and my organisational plans. That I should so misconstrue their question was a cause for the most evident and severe pain. The question was put again in less subtle terms, and responded to as unsatisfactorily as before. The fencing match continued until at length one of my advisers came out with it and said: “Mr Johnstone, I just cheap axe you plain. How much you gon’ pay”?

I replied equally as candidly. “Nothing”. The look of aggrieved ecclesiastical disbelief which followed was accompanied by the outburst: “Well I could tell you right now, Mr Johnstone, you ain gon win no election that way!”

He was right. I got a thorough beating.

As time went on. I tried to cope with this problem in various ways and developed a series of defences in descending order of retreat. One day, I was cornered by an old patriarch who penetrated most of my defences and I was forced to play my last card. I added that in addition to everything else I could go to jail for buying votes, and then I couldn’t possibly be his “representa”. The old man quite clearly bore me the utmost goodwill, perhaps even affection, and I am convinced to this day that he wished to be my man. But he was a man of principal. He swept through my last rampart with a devastating logic: “Now boss man,” said he, “lemme tell ya how dis ting go. I know you ain gon’ tell nobody bout what you give me. And as for me, dis ting is a secret and I ain ga tell nobody – lesen if I do, I ga axe em please don’ tell nobody else – so you ain got a ting to worry ‘bout.”

The other party to this courtship is the candidate or member of Parliament trying to gain and retain the votes of his constituents. In many ways he is just as cagey as the voter. In addition to some of the unsavoury enticements which I have mentioned, there is the standard blandishment of promises, promises. New roads, electricity, water, telephone, a new dock and countless other comforts are bespoken for the people who occupy such a tender place in the heart of the candidate. And, of course, there are lofty and high sounding principles trumpeted throughout the land until the dying embers of the campaign are extinguished in the final hours before election day. And when that day is over, the campaign for the next election commences.

In the more developed countries of the world, Western Europe and America, the buying of votes with currency notes is a thing of the past. Instead, the votes are bought by the party in power lavishing extravagant social programmes on the electorate – all done with the people’s money – while the party in opposition entices the electorate with even more extravagant financial profligacy. The result is that Western Europe has only just awakened to the reality that it cannot afford cradle to the grave socialism, and American politicians cannot quite find the courage to tell their constituents that a nation cannot live forever beyond its means, that the budget must be balanced, and that sacrifices must be made.

Please do not think me unduly cynical. I value greatly the Parliamentary system we have inherited – but I am not unaware of its shortcomings. Like Winston Churchill, I think that democracy is the worst political system – except for all the rest.

One of the distinguishing marks of the Westminster system is the cut and thrust of Parliamentary debate. In the Commons House of Parliament at Westminster, intense, live, robust and fierce debate is the lifeblood of the system. It is the adrenaline that animates the muscle, and fibre of politics.

The British people treasure the English language as a part of their cultural inheritance. They work at it. They strive for perfection in its use. They embellish it with every artifice of rhetoric and eloquence. And they regard it not only as a tool of communication, but as an art form. Nowhere is this more so than in the House of Commons. There, through the centuries, the art of debate has been lifted to its greatest heights. Political wit and penetrating invective are tools which are used with devastating effect both inside and outside the Chamber.

When Benjamin Disraeli was asked the difference between a misfortune and a calamity he replied: “Well, if Gladstone fell into the Thames that would be a misfortune; and if anyone pulled him out, that, I suppose, would be a calamity.”

When the Earl of Sandwich predicted in a white heat that John Wilkes would die either upon the gallows or of some vile and loathesome disease, Wilkes replied: “That depends, my Lord, whether I embrace your principles or your mistress.”

Lloyd George, in one of his revenue bills introduced the expression “unearned increment.” He was attacked in the Commons by a Conservative member, Mr Joynson-Hicks, an impecunious lawyer who rejoiced in the name of Hicks until he married a wealthy lady named Joynson, whose name he joined to his with the addition of a hyphen. This gentleman challenged the Chancellor to explain it. Lloyd George replied: “On the spur of the moment I can think of no better example of unearned increment than the hyphen in the right honourable gentleman’s name:

This same gentleman, many years later, was making a boring speech in the House and Winston Churchill sat opposite shaking his head in disagreement. “I see my right honourable friend shakes his head,” said Hicks, “but I am only expressing my opinion.”

“And I,” shot back Churchill, “am only shaking my own head.”

At other times, Churchill’s wit could be more abusive and he often skirted the limits of parliamentary propriety.

Hugh Gaitskill, the Minister of Fuel and power in the socialist government in 1947, appealed to the nation to have fewer baths in order to save fuel. In a public meeting, he said: “l have never had a great many baths myself, and I can assure those who have them as a habit that it does not make much difference to their health if they have fewer.”

Churchill’s comment on this in the House was: “When Ministers of the Crown speak like this on behalf of His Majesty’s Government, the Prime Minister and his friends have no need to wonder why they are getting increasingly into bad odour. I have even asked myself whether you, Mr Speaker, would admit the word ‘lousy’ as a parliamentary expression in referring to the Administration, provided, of course, it was not intended in a contemptuous sense but purely as one of factual narration.”

In our own House of Assembly, we do not often witness such scenes of urbane and polished rhetoric, but the House has heard many robust and entertaining wits through the years.

One of my favourites was the late George Thompson who came to the House as a member of the PLP and who gloried in the title “Mayor of Gregory Town.” I formed a great affection for him. George was endowed with a rustic eloquence. His speeches were enlivened with a homespun quality. They were filled with the sights and sounds of the forest and the field. They were studded with allusions to the common round and the trivial task of daily life. He was naturally endowed with the oratorical skills which may take years to perfect. His huge frame and flashing gold teeth made of him an imposing figure. You could not ignore George.

I remember an occasion when he was enraged by the behaviour of Mr Randol Fawkes, now Sir Randol. Mr Fawkes had a talent for creating mischief in the House. One of his favourite ploys was to commence a bitter argument and then bow quietly to the Speaker and depart from the Chamber, leaving us all behind fighting like a bunch of cats and dogs.

Although Mr Fawkes spent some years as a Government Minister he later was dropped and sat in opposition to the Government. Since he was a single member with no supporters, he could never rely on getting his motion seconded. When I was Leader of the Opposition I was once unwise enough to promise him that my party would always see that his motions were seconded so that they would receive the courtesy of debate.

One day, Mr Fawkes brought to the House a motion decrying the discharge of dust by the cement factory at Freeport. Now this was regarded as a rather naughty piece of work. Mr Fawkes did not represent a Grand Bahama constituency, and it upstaged the member for that constituency, who was considerably aggrieved. He was paddling in someone else’s pool.

After his speech, Mr Fawkes looked round for a seconder. There was a noticeable silence. I sent word round my members that someone should second the motion. Word came back that I had made the promise, so perhaps it would be appropriate if I seconded the motion.

I don’t like doing jobs half-heartedly, but I confess to a lack of enthusiasm on that occasion. I rose and muttered something about seconding the motion, not out of agreement with its terms, but on the basis that the honourable member had a right to have his motion debated. I then sat down.

And debated it was. It unleashed a fury in the House. George took particular exception to the motion. He rounded on everyone who had spoken in its favour and demolished them one by one in his broad Eleuthera accent. He left me to the last.

“Now Mr Speaker,” he said. “I comes to the Leader of the Hopposition. When I heard the Leader of the Hopposition stand up and second that motion, I couldn’t believe my ears. I know he didn’t ’ave is ’eart in it. Why Mr Speaker when he stand up he brain sit down”

Viscount Morley once said: “The proper memory for a politician is one that knows what to remember and what to forget.” Perhaps George was thinking of that on another occasion which is etched in my memory.

Like Sir Randol, George crossed the floor of the House leaving the PLP to join the FNM in opposition. The Prime Minister had spoken on some occasion in Miami, and shortly afterward spoke on the same subject in Nassau. As far as George was concerned, he had said just the opposite of what he had pronounced in Miami. George was beside himself with fury and launched a bitter attack on the Prime Minister which ended with this startling outburst: “See him there, Mr Speaker,” said he, pointing at the Prime Minister, “he got two tongue in he head. Two tongue. One talk in Miami, and one talk here. And they both lyin’.”

Alas for George, the Speaker had an apoplectic fit and George was made to withdrawn his unparliamentary gibe. Perhaps if George were with us today he might ascribe to the object of his invective a Pentecostal dexterity of the tongue – and perhaps he might get away with it. Provided, of course, it was made clear that the expression was not intended in a contemptuous sense, but purely as one of factual narration!