TIM BELFORD

Politics: It's about stuffing envelopes, eh?

The old adage that people who live in glass houses shouldn't throw stones has come back to me a lot lately.

It's one of the reasons I've been pretty muted in my criticism of the parade of Liberal bagmen and ad types that have kept the Gomery Commission on the front pages.

You see, I've been there.

That's right. Much to my shame I have to confess I've been on the receiving end of the cash-stuffed liberal envelope.

I've been part of the sleeze. I wallowed in the mud with the best of them.

And before the Gomery Commission comes looking for me I've decided to sing like a bird, or at least like Jean Brault.

It was January of 1970. The Quebec Liberal Party was heading into a leadership vote.

Squared off against long-time party stalwart, Pierre Laporte, was Claude Wagner.

Wagner was running on a no nonsense, law and order campaign which, if I remember correctly, called for the death penalty for pot smoking and things like that.

The third man with his hat in the ring was Robert Bourassa. A geeky, economics wonk with black horned-rimmed glasses and all the oratorical prowess of a fence post.

But what he did have was money. Lots of money.

It wasn't his. He didn't have any of his own. But he had the backing of just about everybody in Quebec who did have cash.

And that meant heading into the convention he was the odds on favorite to be the next leader of the party.

About a week before the convention I was approached by the head of the Bishop's University student Liberal Club.

He asked whether I would consider becoming a student delegate to the convention.

Not being much of a joiner, I said no. But when he pointed out it meant a free trip to Quebec City, I relented and paid the fifty cents to become a card-carrying Liberal., Sort of a political flag of convenience, if you will.

Now, even then the party was concerned about the power of cold cash. And they didn't want candidates buying poor student votes.

So they announced, with a great deal of virtuous fanfare, that the party would pay student voters' expenses.

Ah, the best laid plans . . .

When we got to Quebec City we hadn't been in our hotel room for more than thirty minutes when there came a discreet knock at the door.

My roomate opened it to find himself face to face with Peter Lorre.

Well, it wasn't really Peter Lorre but he bore an uncanny resemblance to the sleazy character that Lorre played in Casablanca.

"I'm from Mr. Laporte's office," he announced. "We know the party is paying the shot for students but Mr. Laporte wants you to have a good time."

And with that he thrust an envelope into my roommates hand, turned and disappeared down the hallway.

In the envelope was five hundred dollars in twenties.

We barely had time to discuss the ethics of keeping the money when there came another knock.

This time it was Peter Lorre's twin brother who announced in a heavy whisper "I'm from Robert Bourrassa's office. He wants you to have a little spending money on top of your expenses."

Another envelope. Another five hundred.

Figuring there might be some sort of a trend developing we waited patiently for one of Claude Wagner's minions to show up. No such luck. Maybe he believed in law and order after all.

I bet you're wondering. Did we do the right thing? Did we turn in the money to party officials and register our disgust at the backroom politicking of the day?

After all we were seven students all in our early twenties, an age when idealism has yet to give way to cynicism.

Then again, we were seven young men in probably the best party town in the province of Quebec, for an entire weekend.

You can draw your own conclusions.