What was it, people will ask, this SDP, the last in and first out of British political history?
╥Ordinary people working together to conquer poverty and prejudice,╙ said one of the earlier speakers in the merger debate. It was the ordinary people one felt sorriest for as the debate about their future raged in Sheffield╒s Octagon Hall. Those who embarked on this great adventure seven years ago with a vision of a classless, more equal society where a woman could dress badly and miss appointments, and a man could drink decent clarets and mispronounce his Rs without being made to feel ashamed about it.
╥I am sick of personal attacks,╙ said one of them opening the debate, her own real honeymoon soured by the SDP╒s impending divorce. Shirley Williams spoke of ╥the great sorrow at what is inevitably the parting of the ways╙.
They recalled the good times, when the world seemed to be at their feet and every byelection victory had a W in it.
╥Wawington, Cwosby, Cwoydon Bwycon and Wadnor and, yes, Gweenwich a year ago╙: Roy Jenkins reminded them of the sunlit uplands of social democracy which had only led to ever higher electoral mountains. It was a time for ╥sadness and hope, nostalgia and bitterness╙.
A lot of the latter. Even Roy, the SDP╒s first and still most widely respected leader, was heckled and slow-handclapped by Owenites in the audience. That was a shock, like hearing somebody swear at the Queen Mother.
They recalled the tearful attempts at reunion, they disputed who had done what to whom, who╒d walked out on whom, they quarrelled over who should have the money and who should keep the name. It was the thoroughly modern, middle-class divorce you would expect of the SDP. Splitting the Volvos, however, may be difficult.
╥I hope we can remain friends,╙ said one speaker, near tears, towards the end of the debate.
╥At least,╙ said another whom you felt could see the upside of a nuclear winter, ╥we will no longer have the label of the nice party hung around our necks.╙
Amidst the raging, one figure was missing, boycotting the hall as his supporters boycotted the vote. Dr David Owen only came out after dark. On Saturday evening a ticket-only audience of 800 awaited him in front of a hastily constructed set in the main hall.
╥I╒ve never seen such a do-it-yourself operation,╙ said John Cartwright, the doctor╒s warm-up man. Around him sat the senior figures in the doctor╒s Do-It-Yourself Party. Rosie Barnes and the other women were all dressed in black, resembling ╤ thought their opponents ╤ nothing so much as the Brides of Dracula.
He had already arrived, hovering in the wings awaiting a build-up from Mr Cartwright that owed something to a TV chat show, something to a US presidential campaign, and rather a lot to Doris Stokes. ╥David, I think, is with us at the moment,╙' said Mr Cartwright.
╥I ask you now to rise and welcome David Owen.╙ They rose. He entered. In the absence of water, the doctor walked across the floor. The Gang of One received an ovation at the beginning and another at the end. In the middle he delivered what was left of the speech, and a series of 20-second phrases for the TV news programmes.
╥Pick yourself up, dust yourself down, and go back and fight again,╙ ran one of them, Dr Owen a little undecided whether to be Fred Astaire or Hugh Gaitskell.
╥This isn╒t a rally,╙ said the doctor, with a smirk, ╥it╒s a business meeting.╙
They roared and stamped their feet in the business-like way of Wembley Stadium. The women had Royal Doulton accents; the men were wearing their second-best suits. The doctor stood on a table to receive their applause. Down, sit down, he eventually gestured; his eyes saying Up, stay up. It reminded you of nothing so much as a Conservative Party conference in one of its most tomorrow-belongs-to-us moods.
╥You can╒t change British politics by hero-worship,╙ said Gwynoro Jones the next day, as the SDP moved towards the vote: a commentary on the Owen rally which also served as a useful introduction for Robert Maclennan.
Mr Maclennan made his last rallying whisper for unity. ╥The alternative is impotence. A silencing alternative of splintered social democracy. Social democracy in the abstract and the abattoir.╙
Lord Jenkins covered his face with his fist; Shirley Williams looked on winningly; sympathisers tried not to cry, which would only have come out as mockery.
╥And so,╙ said Bob hesitantly, ╥the moment of decision is here.╙'
A moment for the mergerites to place a ╥just married╙ ad in the columns of political history; for the Owenites to announce a birth; for Labour and Tories still with grounds to hope for a death.
╥Thank you very much,╙ said Mrs Williams, ╥'and I wish you all a safe journey home.╙ That was the SDP.
