Society

Saturday

17 Dec 2011

Projecting Thatcher

‘The Iron Lady’ and the Iron Lady I knew The Iron Lady is a cruel film: brutally unsparing in its depiction of the hazards of old age. I was ready to be angry and to believe that, like jackals, Hollywood lefties were closing in on an aged lioness, safe in the cowardice of assailing the vulnerable, overlooking in their sniggerings the obvious point. In her prime, one roar, and they would all have fled in terror. Those suspicions were unjustified, for this is cruelty in the pursuit of art. The outcome is cinematographic power. It is a work of force and pathos. For most of the time, I was enthralled;

Hugh Eakin

Here comes Qatar

Suddenly, the tiny Gulf emirate is the Middle East’s superpower In late October, Syrian state television aired a 17-minute documentary unmasking what it said was the real force behind the country’s seven-month-old revolt: the tiny Persian Gulf emirate of Qatar. ‘The name of Qatar surfaces once a disaster or conflict breaks out in the Arab and Muslim world,’ the programme begins. ‘Qatar intervenes in major and minor issues, seeking to wield influence by backing rebel and extremist movements as well as armed Islamic groups.’ Along with sowing ‘sedition’ everywhere from Egypt and Tunisia to Sudan and Yemen, Qatar had been ‘financing and arming the rebel movements in eastern Libya.’ Now

Niall Ferguson

On being called a racist

My ‘literary spat’ with the London Review of Books Economic history is not politically correct. Many on the left therefore struggle with its findings. It is indeed astonishing that, from the beginning of the 16th century until the third quarter of the 20th century, the West (Europe and its settler colonies) did much better than the rest of the world and came to rule over it. But that’s what happened. By the 1970s the average American was roughly 20 times richer than the average Chinese. The average Briton was at least 12 times richer than the average Indian. In the first half of the 20th century, westerners had life expectancy

Melanie McDonagh

Christmas for the ladies

At this time of year you’ve probably had it with festive planners, Christmas countdowns and those magazine features about what presents to buy — as if picking presents, rather than paying for them, were the problem. So when I say that the Christmas season is actually too short, and that we should round it off with a second, mini-Christmas, you may get a bit restive. But bear with me. Let’s get onto the second idea first, viz, the mini Christmas. In Ireland, that’s actually what it’s called, the Nollaig Beag or Nollaig na mBan — the Little Christmas, or the woman’s Christmas. That’s the name for the Epiphany in the

James Delingpole

Thank God I don’t have that ghastly sense of entitlement that Eton instils

I honestly didn’t realise I’d been to a ‘minor’ public school until my first term at Christ Church. Before that, I thought — as all of us did at my alma mater — that though of course there were lots of other public schools out there, Malvern could hold its head high with the very best of them. So coming up to Oxford was a bit of a shock. As far as the Etonians and Wyckhamists and Wets were concerned, my school was so obscure and worthless I might have attended a shabby comprehensive. Among those who very much gave off this vibe was David Cameron. Dave was never aggressively

Hugo Rifkind

I have absolutely no opinions whatsoever on the euro – aren’t I a lucky boy?

It’s a remarkable stroke of luck for a columnist, but I have no views whatsoever on the euro. It’s not deliberate, this, just a function of my age. Most columnists seem to have started forming their euro views some time prior to 1992, and I simply wasn’t that sort of 14-year-old. ‘Do you worry about the effect that high German interest rates might have on Britain’s continuing participation in the ERM?’ is exactly the sort of thing we didn’t say to each other, while shaving odd bits out of our grunge-era hair and debating the merits of inhaling deodorant through a towel. I do remember very briefly having an opinion

Matthew Parris

How a friend bought a flat in Berlin and became custodian to a dead Russian

My friend Stephen (let us call him Stephen) is an unsentimental sort of man. In his thirties, he has a sharper mind than his job as a middle-ranking civil servant really demands, but he has more or less settled down. Stylish (and one for the girls) in his twenties, he keeps his neat good looks and slight, alluring stammer, but seems content now in a steady relationship with a good woman in comfortable lodgings he’s able to afford, a long way from the centre of London. His intellect, though, still roves. He has an edge, a critical, sceptical outlook; and has avoided that benign, mellow fuzziness that can settle on

Martin Vander Weyer

Any other business: A seasonal sermon for the City: give generously to portly gentlemen

A consolation of the financial crisis is that it is producing a bumper crop of fiction, the best of which will be read long after all the hefty works of investigative non-fiction have been forgotten. Last year I praised Sebastian Faulks’s A Week in December, and my Christmas reading this year will include Justin Cartwright’s Other People’s Money and Robert Harris’s The Fear Index. The ‘silo mentality’ of the hedge-fund manager offers a rich psychological seam, the drama of the trading floor provides all the McGuffins to sell the film rights, and the contrast between the financiers’ lifestyle and that of the people whose livelihoods they damage is the 21st-century

Anthony Horowitz

The trail

A Christmas short story by Anthony Horowitz Illustrated by Carolyn Gowdy They were spending their first Christmas together in Antigua, Simon and Jane Maxwell, enjoying not just a holiday but a honeymoon after a courtship that had taken them both by surprise. It was his second marriage, her first — and perhaps it was because she had waited so long that she had jumped into it so readily. Of course, she was a modern woman with a perfectly successful career… in publishing, as it happened. She might be single but she would never have described herself as ‘on the shelf’. It wasn’t as if she kept cats or anything dreadful

Lucy Vickery

Competition | 17 December 2011

In Competition No. 2726 you were asked for a modern version of ‘The Twelve Days of Christmas’ taking as your first line ‘On the twelfth day of Christmas my true love sent to me…’ and continuing for a further twelve. Perhaps inevitably there was a fair amount of repetition in the entry: plenty of leakers leaking, hacks a-hacking, lawyers laughing and ‘Five Olympic rings’. Still, you were on good form. Here are extracts from three submissions that only just missed out on a place in the winning line-up. ‘Five wiccan charms;/ Four Hamentaschen/ Three Buddhist texts/ Two Tarot packs/ And a card wishing “Happy winterval” ’ (Dominica Roberts); ‘Five MEPs,/

Rory Sutherland

The Wiki Man: In times of crisis, use your head

A few years ago in Malaysia I found myself reading the national paper, the New Straits Times. There was a headline on the front page that caught my eye. It read something like ‘New road to the airport will make it easier to get to the airport’. I’m sure those weren’t the exact words, but that was pretty much the import of the thing. I read the whole of the ensuing article, which effectively confirmed at length what I already had been led to believe — that the new road to the airport would indeed make it much, much easier to get to the airport. I read it again. Something

Roger Alton

Spectator Sport: All must have prizes

What a year for a world in turmoil: crisis, riots, revolution and economic catastrophe. And that’s just Manchester City. Meanwhile, there’s the cheering news that next year’s even more calamitous financial armageddon will coincide with London hosting a fortnight’s sporting event costing, oh, £23 million an hour give or take some change. Ah yes, 2011 — we will miss you dearly. But after a canny trip to the bookies, some highly complex leveraging against future gains, and by cashing in the remnants of a pension, this column has secured a few bottles of Asti for the traditional end-of-year awards ceremony. With Manchester’s Euro downgrade affecting both blue and red halves

Bruce Anderson

Drink: A very good year

Nineteen-eighty was a great vintage, at least for American politics. I was fortunate enough to spend many months of that year in Washington, anticipating the election of President Reagan. The outgoing Jimmy Carter was a misery-gutted mediocrity: the man who put the mean into mean-spirited. I am prejudiced, in that I have never finished one chapter of a William Faulkner novel. Once — I think it was The Sound and the Fury — I was floundering and about to despair. Someone said: ‘The principal character is mentally defective.’ I replied: ‘Thank you. How does that differentiate him from all the others?’ Carter was Faulkner on a bad day. Most American

Martin Vander Weyer

Not strictly panto

My friend Robin, a retired financier, is a fine comic actor but he’d be the first to admit he has a problem with lines. He bursts on to the rehearsal stage in a huge grey wig and launches into an anarchic approximation of his part as the Magistrate at Calcutta in Around the World in Eighty Days — my adaption of Jules Verne’s classic, and this year’s Christmas show at Helmsley Arts Centre in Yorkshire. Robin is off-piste from start to finish, but with gusto and style. The sentences he imposes on Phileas Fogg and Passepartout (for the latter’s failure to remove his hat and shoes in the pagoda of

Henry Hardy

Maurice Bowra on Patrick Leigh Fermor

When I published Maurice Bowra’s scabrous satires on his contemporaries, New Bats in Old Belfries, in 2005 (pseudonymously), I had to leave blank spaces where two of them should have appeared. This was because their subject was still alive, and was unwilling to give his approval for their inclusion in his lifetime. (Ludovic Kennedy’s name had to be blanked out in another poem for the same reason.) It can now be revealed that Bowra’s target in the excised poems was Patrick (‘Paddy’) Leigh Fermor (PLF), writer, traveller — and Cretan war hero as a result of his activities while serving in the Special Operations Executive during the second world war.

Friday

16 Dec 2011

Douglas Murray

Remembering Christopher Hitchens

Just one of Christopher Hitchens’ talents would have been enough for most people. In him those talents — like his passions — all melded into each other: as speaker, writer and thinker. Yet he was more than the sum even of these considerable parts, for he possessed another talent that was even rarer — a talent for making us, his readers, want to be better people. He used his abilities not to close down questions and ideas, but to open them up. In the process he made you, the reader, aware that you needed to do more, engage more, think more and know more. Writers often feel a need to

Christopher Hitchens

7 May 2011: Christopher Hitchens’ last article for The Spectator

A second excavation from our archives today, and another article by Christopher Hitchens. It is, we now know, the last he would ever write for us: a Diary column dispatched from the States earlier this year on the occasion of Osama Bin Laden’s death. I abhor the idea of taking a mobile-phone call at the dinner table but my friend Douglas Brinkley, eminent historian and editor (of Ronald Reagan and Hunter Thompson alike) has three small children and when his wife calls he rightly answers. So on Sunday night in Houston, Texas, at the home of the bountiful Michael and Nina Zilkha, we got an early notice that the President would

Christopher Hitchens

12 January 1985: ‘Aren’t you scared?’

A sad foray into the Spectator archives today, as we mark the death of Christopher Hitchens. He was, of course, linked with many publications: The New Statesman, The Nation, Vanity Fair — and with The Spectator too. We we all pleased to discover that he wrote so warmly of us in his recent memoirs: ‘…Alexander Chancellor, editor of The Spectator, gave me a call. His correspondent in Washington, and otherwise lovely man, was also having trouble taking the thing seriously and was filing copy that was “frankly a bit ‘flip’”. Would I mind surging down to the capital and seeing if I could hold the fort for a while? I didn’t hesitate.

Charles Glass

Hitch never pulled his punches

One night in pre-gentrified Notting Hill, circa 1979 or 1980, Christopher Hitchens was walking home from dinner at our house when he saw a man beating up a woman. Never one to back away from battle, physical or verbal, Christopher took a swing at the woman’s attacker. He was pleased to have spared her further savagery from the brute, until the woman told him to mind his own business and offered succour to her boyfriend. I think Christopher ended up with a black eye, but I forget which of the pair administered it. The neighbourhood lost a vital element when he moved to New York (and later Washington) not long

Alex Massie

Christopher Hitchens 1949-2011

It was only yesterday that I remembered I should read Christopher Hitchens’ latest article for Vanity Fair: a touching, mordantly funny, survey of life, Nietzsche, Sidney Hook and death. Though one knew the occasion would not be long delayed, it remains wincingly sad that it must be one of the last things the great fighter ever wrote before his death. As he put it: Before I was diagnosed with esophageal cancer a year and a half ago, I rather jauntily told the readers of my memoirs that when faced with extinction I wanted to be fully conscious and awake, in order to “do” death in the active and not the