I cracked the spine of my copy of Ben Pimlott’s Harold Wilson (HarperCollins; 1992) in the somewhat incongruous setting of the Villa Magna hotel in Madrid on a lovely sunny day in 1993. A treat in itself, the Pimlott opus also marked, or coincided with at any rate, something of a revival in the former prime minister’s reputation.
Not, in truth, that there was any way but up for Baron Rievaulx. In the years since his 1976 resignation, his name was mud, and not the friendly brown mud of an English autumn but the oozing black swamp mud familiar from films of the Indiana Jones variety. From all sides, the four-time election winner was pelted with dirt. The fact that the various groups of detractors disagreed as to why they despised him in no way lessened the impact of their attacks.
On the left, he was, quite simply, a traitor…
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Utopia, you are standing in it! 
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