Society

Toby Young

Yes, Britain is a Christian country

I can’t say it was a great surprise to read a letter from a group of well-known authors, academics, comedians and politicians in the Telegraph earlier this week complaining about David Cameron’s description of Britain as a ‘Christian country’. As a general rule, any acknowledgment of Britain’s Christian heritage has members of the liberal intelligentsia reaching for their keyboards and angrily typing out words like ‘sectarian’, ‘alienation’ and ‘division’. As Harry Cole argued in a blog post for The Spectator, the evidence that Britain is a Christian country is overwhelming. We have an established church, our head of state is also the defender of the faith and 59 per cent

Dear Mary: Do I grass on my son’s schoolfriend?

Q. My son was invited, both verbally and via Facebook, to a schoolfriend’s 16th birthday party. However, when I met the girl’s parents at school and thanked them they said, ‘Oh, doesn’t he know he’s been culled?’ They said they had to be away during that exeat, so they’d told the girl to cull the numbers right back and just have a dinner for ten with takeaway pizzas and Netflix. Now my son says the girl has told everyone (150 people) to come anyway. She says it’s the only date everyone’s free before exams start and it will ‘ruin her life’ if she can’t have it. Besides the parents won’t

Portrait of the week | 24 April 2014

Home David Cameron, the Prime Minister, appeared in public with George Osborne, the Chancellor of the Exchequer — the first time they had been photographed as a couple for four years — to draw attention to infrastructure projects. Mr Cameron mentioned in an article for the Church Times that Britain is a Christian country, which made 55 celebrity atheists write to the Daily Telegraph to deny it. A new Family Court came into being, committed to resolving within 26 weeks cases about the care of children, rather than the average of 56 weeks recorded in 2011. Steve Webb, the Liberal Democrat pensions minister, said that the government could help people

Dot Wordsworth: What is an astel?

Dear old Ian Hislop was pottering around North Petherton, Somerset, on television, to talk about the Alfred Jewel, found nearby (where the king burnt the cakes) in 1693 by a labourer digging for peat. Since then, learned men have made foolish pronouncements on the jewel — as in a game of charades when the guesser says ‘pot’ and ‘a toe’, but can’t get potato. The ninth-century Alfred Jewel, a favourite exhibit in the Ashmolean, is a tear-shaped piece of rock crystal, two and half inches long, covering an enamel figure holding two scepters. Round the edge, gold letters spell out: Aelfred mec heht gewyrcan — ‘Alfred had me made’. Alfred

2159: Wine, Woman and Song

Nine unclued lights are linked in three different ways (three lights to each) to a tenth, which solvers should highlight. All may be verified in Chambers.   Across   5    Wet month unproductive (6) 10    In the open, fish got cleverly hidden (10, three words) 12    Atom bombs are nuclear without exception (6, three words) 17    Trifled foolishly? (7) 18    Request provided for a time obliquely in Scotland (7) 20    In part of swine’s face, note a drop of white (8) 25    Look round Spain for a house (3) 26    Prelates leaving a cathedral en masse? (7) 28    Second petition secures a red dress (7, hyphened) 29    Say Gabon is

to 2156: Shoreline

The perimeter is occupied by seven SANDPIPERS.   First prize Tim Hanks, Douglas, Isle of Man Runners-up Hilda Ball, Belfast; B. Taylor, Little Lever, Bolton

Rod Liddle

Premiership football is repulsive in every respect

Praise where it’s due. This opening to Russell Brand’s Guardian column about David Moyes is very good: “(His) face has now experienced the fate for which it looks like it was designed. The deep grooves of grief in his brow, his sunken, woeful eyes and dry parched lips, a perspicacious sculpture carved in anticipation of this slap of indignity.” Very nice. I’ve written about the Moyes business this week for the magazine. I do think it is hilarious the speed with which all the football writers have moved from describing the bloke as the best young manager this country has ever seen to “disastrous” and “not up to the job”

Lara Prendergast

Red hair is having a renaissance

Much like supporting Millwall or contracting Parkinson’s Disease, red hair has traditionally been seen by the prejudiced as an affliction worth avoiding. The biographies of Mary Magdalene, Van Gogh and Sylvia Plath will confirm this. Rod Liddle sticks it to the gingers in his column this week: ‘I took my youngest son to a football match on Easter Monday. It used to be something I wryly called a ‘treat’ when the kids were younger, but we usually lost in such depressing circumstances each time that I would then feel the need to give them another treat immediately afterwards, to alleviate the misery. Bowling or pizza or something. Not any more.

James Forsyth

Exclusive: Max Chambers to join No.10 policy unit

I understand that Max Chambers of Policy Exchange will soon join the Number 10 policy unit. Chambers will take on the home affairs brief that has been vacant since Patrick Rock’s resignation in February; Rock quit shortly before being arrested over an alleged offence related to child abuse images. At Policy Exchange, Chambers has advocated devolving more powers to Police and Crime Commissioners and building bigger, more modern prisons. He is the latest figure from Policy Exchange to be recruited to the Number 10 policy unit; Alex Morton joined to cover housing in December of last year. With Neil O’Brien, the former director of Policy Exchange, advising George Osborne and

Martin Amis may be a pompous arse, but he’s our pompous arse

Was it Tibor Fischer’s hatchet job on Yellow Dog? Was it the fallout from the  Islamophobia row? Was it getting his teeth fixed? Who knows, but at some point in the last decade or so, Martin Amis fell out of fashion – hard. It’s closer to croquet than football, I grant you, but slagging him off is now a national sport. Reading his books in public has become a bourgeois taboo. Flicking through one of his essay collections on the bus the other day, it didn’t take me long to figure out why my neighbour was eyeing me like I was a sex offender. The insults that get thrown his

Steerpike

RIP Mark Shand

Mr S was saddened to hear of the untimely death of Mark Shand, the Duchess of Cornwall’s brother. He was a kind and witty man: a natural bon viveur. Parties for his charity, Elephant Family, which campaigned to protect the habitats of the endangered Asian elephant, were always splendid affairs. Shand’s vivacity and generosity came to the fore and partygoers gave generously. Mr S remembers one bash at Lakshmi Mittal’s gaffe. Lalit Modi, Vijay Mallya, Michiel Mol, Sir Evelyn de Rothschild, Joanna Lumley, Sarah Ferguson and countless faceless financiers were dolling out cash like nobody’s business. London society has lost one of its most dashing players. And the Indian elephant

Steerpike

Russell Brand cannot let BBC row slide

Russell Brand won’t let go of his row with the BBC. He popped up as the mystery guest at Letters Live (a spin off from the wonderful Twitter account @LettersOfNote, where assorted luvvies read great letters from the past). Inevitably, Brand screwed up his reading. He tried to rescue the situation by quipping: ‘Is this like when I broke the BBC?’ This was met by assorted groans and the odd clap. Brand’s references to his suspension and departure from the BBC over the ‘Sachs-gate’ affair in 2008 are getting very tiresome indeed. Mr S was under the impression that Brand was busy plotting a revolution.

A toast to Le Roi Jen Quinze

There ought to be a new literary award: the antisocial book of the year. A dozen years ago, Claire Tomalin’s Pepys would have won the laurels by a country mile. That Christmas, everyone seemed to have been given a copy, and normally healthy eaters would arise from the lunch table after only three hours, desperate to return to Pepys. It was impossible to raise a four for bridge. Although John Campbell’s biography of Roy Jenkins is not quite so compulsive, it would take this year’s prize. Inter alia, Mr Campbell solves one of the small historical mysteries of our time. Denis Healey has always insisted that Roy was a closet

Notes on… Eastern Germany

Ever since the Berlin Wall came down, I’ve been pottering around eastern Germany, where my father’s family came from, and fled from at the end of the second world war. I thought my interest would fade as my father’s fatherland was absorbed by the Bundesrepublik — but for me, this strange hinterland grows more intriguing with each passing year. Take the historic heartland of Hitler’s Reich, subject it to 45 years of communism and then 25 years of capitalism. What do you end up with? A mad mishmash of past and present, the last century laid bare. Naturally, the former GDR isn’t uniformly pretty (indeed, large swaths of it are

Rory Sutherland

What do you get if you cross a suitcase with rollerblades?

A 14-year-old at an American school recently caused a stir when he claimed that the US government could save over $400 million annually on the cost of printer ink if the default printer font were switched from Times New Roman to Garamond. Major effects can often be achieved by relatively trivial improvements. One of the things I have always hated about the European passport (apart from the word ‘European’, obviously) is the fact that the pages and the cover are all the same size. How much shorter would all immigration queues be were the photograph page just an eighth of an inch narrower than other pages, so the damned thing

Hunted in Mogadishu by the Sick Man and the Jilbab

From a way off, as he entered the café, he looked young and handsome but when he sat down there was something wrong in that face. He moved like a man with a terminal illness. For no particular reason I decided he was carrying a bomb in his briefcase. I felt the urge to run, to escape this crowded place. Instead we ordered tea. We met because I was looking for certain contacts in Mogadishu and I had been told he could help. I introduced the subject in a roundabout way, but I could see he knew exactly what I was after. He was obliging, breezily described his network of

Mary Wakefield

Is there any part of human life that hasn’t been turned into a medical condition?

When Greg, my old uni pal, came to stay from NYC he brought with him an extra bag for his pills: vitamins A, B, C, D, zinc, magnesium, selenium, ginseng. They decamped to the kitchen, the pills, and stood in rows beside the kettle awaiting their morning ritual. They were bigger than British versions, I noticed, and more violently coloured. Come breakfast, Greg requested pomegranate juice, not for taste but for antioxidants, and orange juice for electrolytes. Then there was lunch. We’d be nearing the end of a trek round some royal palace when suddenly Greg’s voice would flatten: ‘You know, I think my blood sugar’s getting low?’ Then, in