Society

Mitres off to the Archbishop of Canterbury for inviting ‘a family or two’ of refugees into his home. Well, not specifically into his home but into a four-bedroom cottage that sits in the grounds of Lambeth Palace. Opening up your second home to refugees is becoming quite fashionable among people who have more houses than they have hats or, indeed, mitres. Bob Geldof has offered refugees use of his Kent home as well as his London flat. The Pope has instructed that Vatican lodgings should be made available to a few families. This refugee crisis is proving easier to solve than we first thought. By my quick calculation, that’s possibly up

The Save Darfur page on Facebook was one of the most heart-warming successes of the early years of social media. Between 2007 and 2010, more than a million people joined to protest against the world’s indifference to the genocide in Darfur. Concerned and compassionate, their virtue shone forth for all their friends to see. They had every reason to protest, and still do. When I was at refugee camp in Calais a few months, I did not meet any Syrians. By contrast, Sudanese, fleeing conscription by the militias in Darfur, and Eritreans fleeing a prison state, which is becoming Africa’s North Korea, were everywhere. But Save Darfur is famous, not

The art critic Brian Sewell has died aged 84. In 2011, Freddy Gray interviewed the waspish critic, and spoke to him about his duty to be frank about his personal life – even if it shocked other octogenarians.  ‘It must be so awfully boring being a fish,’ says Brian Sewell, as he looks out the window at his pond. ‘You can only have sex once a year on a prescribed day. The frogs are just the same.’ We are in his study. It is a large room full of books, mostly big art books. An old German Shepherd lies passed out on the floor. ‘Poor Winckelmann,’ says Sewell, peering down at

I’ve never been an Elton John fan. Never owned an album. Never added one of his tunes to my playlist of favourite tracks. Never really understood the appeal of pith helmets, spectacles, coat tails, and twitchy eyebrows. Yet it’s because I’m immune to his charm that it would be easy for me to mock Elton for falling for the scam arranged by two pranksters who convinced him that he was speaking with the Russian president, Vladimir Putin. It would be easy but it would also be unfair because what happened to Elton wasn’t a prank. A prank contains some clue that gives the victim a chance to escape the net.