At the moment when the announcement was made, in 1976, I was standing to attention on the runway of Sofia’s airport, clutching a sheaf of giant gladioli and listening to the eighth or ninth verse of Bulgaria’s national anthem. Eddie Bolland, the British ambassador, whispered to me through the foliage: “The prime minister has resigned.” I whispered back: “Was he the big noise or is that the Communist party first secretary?” Bolland abandoned diplomatic discretion and shouted his reply. Not their prime minister. “Our prime minister.”
I was not alone in my astonishment. Harold Wilson had told his usual confidants that he would leave Downing Street during his 60th summer. But, unusually, they had respected his confidence. So newspapers were left to speculate about the “sudden decision”. All the old canards were dredged up and regurgitated to produce a consensus that he had something to hide. Wilson took his place in British history as the prime minister who deserted his friends and abandoned his principles.
