Society

Thursday

Dot Wordsworth

How Ebola got its name

It should perhaps be called Yambuku fever, since that was the village in Zaire (as it was then, now the Democratic Republic of the Congo) where it was identified in 1976 by Peter Piot, a scientist from the Institute of Tropical Medicine in Antwerp. He is now director of the London School of Hygiene & Tropical Medicine, and went back to Yambuku earlier this year, meeting a survivor of the 1976 outbreak. Professor Piot decided to name it after the river Ebola, 60 miles from Yambuku, because he realised the stigma that would attach to the disease. In that, Yambuku is luckier than the German town of Marburg in Hesse,

Alexander Chancellor

If you don’t like this stupid survey, there’ll be a contradictory one along in a minute

Perhaps it is because newspapers are going through such hard times that they fill their pages with items that cost them almost nothing to report: in particular, they show ever increasing reliance on futile pieces of research carried out by often obscure academics in any corner of the globe. These people are greedy for publicity of any kind and our newspapers are only too eager to oblige. The subjects investigated include such things as the supposed effects of drinking too much or too little, or of taking too much or too little physical exercise; and they are frequently contradictory in their conclusions. One particularly striking example of such contradictions was

Doc

2185: Over the sea — and bridge

Two unclued lights describe the location of the others, individually or as a pair. One of these unclued lights does double duty. One square must contain a beetle showing possible alternatives to one of the unclued lights.   Across 11    Tipsy grannie raking it in (7) 12    Skilling worker put sign outside (6, hyphened) 16    Noble cut out mink (5) 19    In bed, off work (7) 21    First half of expedition to Spain is risk-free (4) 23    Continue to rush doctor (7) 24    Land mass is reflected volcanic rock (4) 30    Fan of absolute ruler placing garments in race (7) 32   

Doc

To 2182: Tops

The unclued lights are ROMAN CROWNS. First prize Philip Hawkins, Wirksworth, Matlock, Derbyshire Runners-up G.H.Willetts, London SW19; Chris Edwards, Pudsey, Leeds

Steerpike Steerpike

Palace intrigue – is Her Majesty’s press corps on the verge of revolt?

Her Majesty’s Loyal Press Corps are on the verge of revolt. Minutes of a recent meeting of the Press Gallery Committee – seen by The Spectator – show that a Republican motion to ditch the Loyal Toast (in which Westminster hacks and assembled guests, from the PM down, raise a glass to the British sovereign) is being considered. Minutes from the July meeting of the Committee state: (ii) Loyal Toast: the committee considered the proposal to discontinue the loyal toast at Press Gallery lunches which had been deferred from a previous meeting. After discussion it was agreed that the chairman should take soundings amongst colleagues and report back to the

Anne Jolis

NHS ambulance trouble is more complex than miserly Tories and NHS privatisation

English NHS ambulance services are spending twice as much on private ambulances than they were in 2012, according to Labour, while response-times have lengthened and ambulance staff appear increasingly disgruntled.[audioplayer src=”http://traffic.libsyn.com/spectator/TheViewFrom22_28_August_2014_v4.mp3″ title=”Julia Manning joins Mary Wakefield and Fraser Nelson to discuss the 999 crisis.” startat=50] Listen [/audioplayer] So there’s something else to blame on the Tory government, lest anyone feared a shortage. Shadow Health Secretary Andy Burnham lost no time in charging that ‘these figures show just how quickly the NHS is changing under David Cameron.’ Perhaps. Spectator subscribers, however, know the ambulance troubles are more complex than just miserly Tories and creeping NHS privatisation. Assuming, that is, they caught Mary Wakefield’s inside-look (literally)

Julie Burchill Julie Burchill

‘Hang ’em high!’ – leftists for the death penalty, re Pistorius et al

O, the fury of my Sisters over the risible punishment (I’ve seen longer sentences in Ulysses) handed out to Oscar Pistorius! I’m with them all the way on this one. On hearing that India had issued the death penalty to the four men convicted of raping and murdering a student in Delhi last year, my first reaction was, ‘Ooo, good ­I hope it’s televised!’ I have long been a supporter of the death ­penalty for any type of killing except the most self-defensive kind – and I see this as an important part of my identity as a feminist, especially. Two women a week are killed by partners or ex-partners,

Douglas Murray

Why would jihadi terrorists attack Canada? Better to ask: why not?

The attacks in Canada probably seem non-sensical to some people. After all, much of the press and political class in the West has spent years trying to cover over the motivations of people like those who have spent this week targeting soldiers and politicians in Canada. ‘Why did they target Canada?’ headlines are asking today. And well they might. There has been a great push in recent years to put the causes of Islamic jihad not onto the perpetrators but onto the victims of this problem. So, for instance, when America has been attacked, it has regularly been suggested that ‘the United States had it coming’ (as Mary Beard so

The Spectator

The Spectator at war: Coastal conquest

From The Spectator, 24 October 1914: In the western theatre of the war great movements have been going on which have won for themselves the name of the coast battle. Strange as it may sound, it appears that as soon as Antwerp was taken, and the inevitable State parade was finished, General von Kluck determined, or was ordered, to make an advance along the coast in order at least to take Dunkerque, Calais, and Boulogne. The notion that the German General Staff seriously wanted Calais in order that they might fix their giant howitzers and “bombard England” is, of course, a military joke, though apparently believed in by a large

Bruce Anderson

The secret kinship of good wine and good cricket

A high proportion of wine-lovers also enjoy cricket, and vice versa. This might seem natural. Anyone with an aesthetic temperament will surely find his way to two of life’s greatest pleasures. But there may also be a parallel. Wine is made of decomposed grapes. Vignerons conjure sublime flavours out of long-decayed fruit. As you sniff a good red Burgundy, there will always be a scent of the farmyard. Those who make the great pudding wines extract transcendent sweetness from grapes which are already rotting before they are picked. Cricket is a beautiful and gracious game. I still have a mental picture of a cover drive by Barry Richards. He hardly

Aidan Hartley

What happened when I tried to buy back my father’s farm

 Kenya I perused the brochure produced by Tanzania’s state corporation for livestock ranching, aimed at attracting foreign investors. Under ‘beef production’ was a photo of an American bison. Tanzania’s state bureaucrats might not know what cows look like — but they still know how to eat them. My father Brian Hartley had 3,500 cattle when socialist president Julius Nyerere nationalised our ranch on Kilimanjaro’s slopes. In the 1960s, Nyerere seized farms in ways Mugabe never dared emulate. I still have the note Nyerere scrawled in biro, taking my father’s business partner’s property within seconds of arriving there. Eating began immediately. Dad stayed on to manage his former farm because it

Nicholas Farrell

Italy’s in terminal decline, and no one has the guts to stop it

[audioplayer src=”http://traffic.libsyn.com/spectator/TheViewFrom22_23_Oct_2014_v4.mp3″ title=”James Forsyth, Mats Persson and Matthew Elliott discuss Europe” startat=60] Listen [/audioplayer] Rome   The Rome Opera House sacked its entire orchestra and chorus the other day. Financed and managed by the state, and therefore crippled by debt, the opera house — like so much else in Italy — had been a jobs-for-life trade union fiefdom. Its honorary director, Riccardo Muti, became so fed up after dealing with six years of work-to-rule surrealism that he resigned. It’s hard to blame him. The musicians at the opera house — the ‘professori’ — work a 28-hour week (nearly half taken up with ‘study’) and get paid 16 months’ salary a year, plus absurd perks

Lucy Vickery

Autumn villanelle

In Competition No. 2870 you were invited to submit an autumn villanelle. Stephen Fry likes villanelles. The form inspired him to write his book The Ode Less Travelled (subtitled Unlocking the poet within). I like them too — and so do you, if the size of the entry is anything to go by. A round of applause for the winners below, who take £30 each.   Autumn has come and summer dreams are dead And though she compensates with golden trees Beyond her kind deceit death lies ahead.   She wears a smile and moves with gentle tread And yet her tone will change as time decrees; Autumn has come

Rory Sutherland Rory Sutherland

The best navigation idea I’ve seen since the Tube map

I stopped using London buses when some coward put doors on them. Twenty years ago, you could board any bus headed in the right direction and when it diverged from your intended route you’d jump off and board another. You didn’t need to understand bus routes at all. Now, when bus doors open only at specified stops, an absurd level of research is needed. It takes five minutes to work out where to wait and which route to take. Worse, buses use the dippy Paris Métro approach (Diréction Porte de Clignancourt) where only the final destination is on the front. This demands unrealistic knowledge of the outer suburbs. Where the

Julie Burchill Julie Burchill

Why I’ll never want to escape Portmeirion

My husband and I stay for a week most summers in Portmeirion, the strangest and loveliest ‘village’ in the world. Built amid 20 miles of woodland on the peninsula of Tremadog Bay in Wales, it was called ‘a home for fallen buildings’ by its creator Clough Williams-Ellis, a local landowner. It was opened in 1926, and George Bernard Shaw, H.G. Wells and Bertrand Russell were early visitors; Noël Coward wrote Blithe Spirit here in 1941. I won’t try to describe it; if you’ve never seen it, just google it and prepare to be astonished. But oy, the drive! In the past we’ve motored from Brighton through Birmingham, a trip of

Mary Wakefield Mary Wakefield

What are 16-year-olds supposed to learn by making posters?

My niece, Lara, 15, has a mind like a surgical blade. On any subject, from calculus to The X Factor, she finds the heart of the issue and dissects it with alarming ease. Lara makes mincemeat of homework, trailing A grades, which is why it was so odd to find her stumped two weeks ago. The trouble was with her English language GCSE. As part of her coursework (controlled assessment) she had to comment on a pamphlet, produced by a charity, about volunteering. On the cover of the pamphlet was a slogan in a pink circle, and Lara’s dilemma was this. She said: I’ll get points if I write that

Peregrine Worsthorne

Bourbon from Bush, envy from Nixon… and running into Herbert Hoover: encounters with eight presidents

I feel a bit of a fraud writing about the ‘presidents I knew’, since journalists do not really get to know the great figures they interview or shake hands with. Indeed the relationship between journalist and great personage is about as false as any relationship can be, since each is trying to make use of the other. So in all likelihood my dreamed relationship with President Herbert Hoover — which began and ended in 1933 when I was aged 11 and only lasted for about a minute — came nearer to being a genuine human relationship than all the other journalistic ones later — which included Harry Truman, Dwight Eisenhower,

The Spectator

From the archives | 23 October 2014

From ‘Topics of the day’, The Spectator, 24 October 1914: That spies are a great danger at the present time, and that espionage is being carried on on a gigantic scale, we do not doubt. It has been shown again and again that reports of the movements of our ships and of our troops, and every form of information useful to the enemy, are rapidly and secretly dispatched from this country day by day and hour by hour. It must not be supposed, however, that the men who betray our secrets to the enemy are necessarily Germans. Unfortunately there is every reason to believe that they are not only British

James Delingpole James Delingpole

My new affair is thrilling, expensive — and might just break my neck

I have fallen in love with an unsuitable male. My wife isn’t totally happy about this relationship because she recognises how dangerous it is. The problem with Eddie is that his vices are my vices. He’s reckless, an adrenaline junkie who likes always to be up front. Really, a most unsuitable companion for a skinny, breakable family man fast approaching 50. And did I mention how expensive he is? It’s as bad as having a high-class mistress or a serious cocaine habit, but I’m powerless to resist. I love hunting. I love my mount Eddie Stobart. When I’m riding to hounds, all my worldly cares vanish. It makes me feel