Not much has been written about The Ibogaine Effect as a serious factor in the Labour primary, but toward the end of the race—about three hours before the vote—word leaked out that some of Kendall’s top advisors had called in a Brazilian doctor who was said to be treating the candidate with “some kind of strange drug” that nobody in the press corps had ever heard of.
It had been common knowledge for many weeks that Burnham was using an exotic brand of speed known as Wallot … and it had long been whispered that Kendall was into something very heavy, but it was hard to take the talk seriously until I heard about the appearance of a mysterious Brazilian doctor. That was the key. Later that night, it was reported that Liz Kendall MP was a known user of a powerful drug called Ibogaine.
I immediately recognized The Ibogaine Effect—from Kendall’s near-breakdown on the flatbed truck in Buckinghamshire, the delusions and altered thinking that characterized her campaign in Hampshire, and finally the condition of “total rage” that gripped her in South Yorkshire. There was no doubt about it:
The Progressive Savior had turned to massive doses of Ibogaine as a last resort. The only remaining question was “When did she start?” But nobody could answer this one, and I was not able to press the candidate herself for an answer because I was permanently barred from the Kendall campaign after that incident on the “Tall Wheat Special” in Buckinghamshire … and that scene makes far more sense now than it did at the time. Kendall has always taken pride in her ability to deal with hecklers; she has frequently challenged them, calling them up to the stage in front of big crowds and then forcing the poor bastards to debate with her in a blaze of TV lights.
But there was none of that in South Yorkshire. When the Boohoo began grabbing at her legs and screaming for more gin, The Progressive went all to pieces … which gave rise to speculation among reporters familiar with her campaign style, that Kendall was not herself. It was noted, among other things, that she had developed a tendency to roll her eyes wildly during TV interviews and debates, that her thought patterns had become strangely fragmented, and that not even her closest advisors could predict when she might suddenly spiral off into babbling rages, or neocomatose funks. In retrospect, however, it is easy to see why Kendall fell apart in South Yorkshire. There she was—far gone in a bad Ibogaine frenzy—suddenly shoved out in the blinding daylight to face an exuberant crowd and some kind of snarling lunatic going for her legs while she tried to explain why she was “The only Labourite who can beat Cameron.”
It is entirely conceivable—given the known effects of Ibogaine—that Kendall’s brain was almost paralyzed by hallucinations at the time; that she looked out at that crowd and saw gila monsters instead of people, and that her mind snapped completely when she felt something large and apparently vicious clawing at her legs. We can only speculate on this, because those in a position to know have flatly refused to comment on rumours concerning the MP’s disastrous experiments with Ibogaine. I tried to find the Brazilian doctor on election night, but by the time the polls closed he was long gone. One of the hired Oxbridge trustafarians in her Holiday Inn headquarters said a man with fresh welts on his head had been dragged out the side door and put on a bus to Swansea, but we were never able to confirm this.