Society

Saturday

20 Oct 2007

Bad trip

Your ordeal starts innocuously enough. ‘Welcome aboard the south east trains service to London Waterloo. This train will be calling at…’ You settle back in your seat and for a few moments wallow in blissful ignorance of the ruthless campaign of mental torture that is about to be unleashed on you as part of a complete moral and intellectual reconditioning by state agents for anti-democratic purposes. ‘The ticket inspector will shortly be making his way through the train.’ You recognise the silkily patronising voice of Patricia Hewitt but think no more about it. She can’t have had that many offers when Gordon took over, and it’s regular work. Of course,

Jeremy Clarke

All in the mind | 20 October 2007

The only light came from a reading lamp pointing at the centre of the room. The background music was whale song and randomly plucked harp strings. The room was the top floor of an 18th-century house. The only other floor I’ve seen that sloped as much as this one is in the Crooked House at Peter Pan’s Playground, which is next to Southend pier. On an assortment of chairs three men and a woman were sitting facing each other. They had tiny needles sticking out of their ears and forearms. One of the men also had a needle sticking straight up from the crown of his head. This I subconsciously

Taki

Control freaks

New York Mayor Michael Bloomberg is as gruesome a fellow as they come. Mind you, he’s not as bad as Governor Eliot Spitzer, but then not every public official is a habitual body-waxer the way Spitzer is. The trouble with both men is that at various times one or the other appears not to have felt the slightest contempt for commerce, foul play, hypocrisy or cowardice, among other things. Bloomberg calls himself America’s greenest mayor, but he’s as green as the fumes which choke Noo Yawkers every day, including holidays. Just consider this: Bloomie’s emissions are equal to those of 18 average Americans, 404 average Guatemalans, and I’d hate to

Mary Killen

Your problems solved | 20 October 2007

Q. I recently prayed to St Jude, the patron saint of lost causes, in the cause of a friend who was desperately ill. My prayers were answered. I have been told that it is protocol to acknowledge in writing favours received by St Jude. To where should I post the letter, Mary? I am confused. Name and address withheld A. You are not expected to write to St Jude himself. Instead, it is traditional to place a small ad in a publication with personal columns. Why not do this to coincide with 28 October, this saint’s feast day? Q. My wife and I are planning to visit the mediaeval countryside

Dot Wordsworth

Mind your language | 20 October 2007

When the postal strike was in full spate we heard quite a bit about ‘Spanish practices’, or at least we did sometimes. On one morning the BBC referred to ‘Spanish practices’ in the nine o’clock news and merely to ‘practices’ in its later bulletins, presumably for fear of offending any Spaniards who were listening in. ‘It used to be old Spanish customs in my day,’ said my husband, stirring in his armchair like a badger on a sunny winter’s day. But he was right about the grey years when unions would come out over the slightest disagreement over demarcation. They stayed true to old Spanish customs. To be sure, practices

Toby Young

I know nothing about rugby, but Jonny Wilkinson is still my favourite quarterback

‘You’re joking, right?’ The person on the other end of the phone was Grub Smith, a sports-loving friend of mine who I was hoping might get me out of a spot of bother. The problem was, I’d arranged to watch this Saturday’s rugby World Cup final with some neighbours and I thought my knowledge of the game could do with some brushing up. The question that had prompted Grub’s incredulous response was about Jonny Wilkinson. For some reason, he was surprised by my reference to him as ‘the quarterback’. Ordinarily, I wouldn’t be afraid to reveal my ignorance in front of the neighbours, but not knowing about rugby carries all

The Spectator

Letters to the Editor | 20 October 2007

Promises, promises Sir: Fraser Nelson (Politics, 6 October) suggests that the approach that won David Cameron the leadership in 2005 was conveyed in messages like ‘social responsibility’ and ‘general wellbeing’. I, and I believe many others, decided to vote for Mr Cameron after he promised to withdraw the Conservatives from the EPP/ED Group in the European Parliament. A new Tory strategy based on specific promises will only be successful if there is a genuine commitment to carry these out. Richard Soper New Zealand Lib Dems and the EU Sir: We read that again the Liberal Democrats are blaming their leader for their fall in popularity in the polls. Does it

Charles Moore

The Spectator’s notes | 20 October 2007

There is much complaint that ‘ageism’ has toppled Sir Menzies Campbell. In theory, one must deplore prejudice against advancing years. Political leadership should come after accumulating decades of wisdom, rather than being treated, as Tony Blair seems to regard the premiership, as something to put on your CV. But the trouble is that Sir Ming’s leadership of the Liberals did exemplify the things that genuinely do get worse with age. He showed a slowness, a lack of mental agility, an imperviousness to new ideas. It was as if he were deaf. However, this column’s main explanation for his fall is the curse of the Iraq war. One should never tire

Jane Moore

Diary – 20 October 2007

Christmas is coming. In fact, clock the mince pies on sale in M&S or the ruddy selection boxes in just about every store except Millets, and you could be forgiven for thinking it’s here already. Last week saw the annual headache that is the publication of the top ten list of ‘must-have’ Christmas toys, all likely to be requested by those short people that live in your house and all guaranteed to be out of stock by 30 October because of a failure by manufacturers to pre-empt demand. Apparently, this year’s Tracey Island is an equally hard-to-come-by Igglepiggle, a cuddly toy described as ‘energetic but vulnerable’. I know how it

Liz Anderson

Property porn

I need help. I’ve got an addiction. It’s reading property magazines and newspaper supplements and watching property programmes on television. I’m not looking for a new flat or house to buy so there’s really no excuse for this time-consuming passion. The compulsion started some two years ago when I was looking for a flat to buy. So, like many addictions, mine started through necessity but has grown into something uncontrollable. It took me more than six months to find my flat (on the internet) and in that time I had become an expert on reading floorplans, unravelling estate-agent-speak and knowing the minimum square footage I could live in. I should

Mira Barhillel

Flippin’ amazing

Here is the scientific formula for calculating London’s top property prices: think of a figure, double it, add a few noughts, and voila! — or should I say nazdarovie, of whatever it is that oligarchs say when toasting a deal. Ordinary mortals nowadays are worried sick about their mortgage repayments, set to rocket when their short-term fixes come to an end and real-interest rates kick in. They lie awake at night with images of Northern Rock queues flashing before their eyes and wonder why Mr Darling, whose eyebrows failed to reassure over that issue, also failed to do anything for first-time buyers since taking office. But meanwhile, in a place

Edie Lush

Prime time

‘London House Prices Set to Crash! The Capital’s Property Boom Finally Ends! London Housing Bubble Pops!’ As the reality of the US sub-prime property story leaks across the Atlantic, headline writers are gearing themselves to tell the end of the ten-year fairy tale of almost uninterrupted growth in property values in the UK, and specifically the end of the skyrocketing cost of housing in London. But is that it? If you bought your ideal Kensington gaff in the last decade, are you going to spend the next few years regretting your decision, unable to cash in and stuck in a stagnant market? And if you were still thinking of buying,

Harriet Marrjohnson

Invest in Budapest

On a crisp, clear autumn day in Budapest the sun streamed in through tall windows on to the splendid parquet floor of an elegant flat on the east bank of Budapest. The flat was late 19th-century but spacious and in good condition — three large bedrooms, high ceilings, original features, hand-painted floor tiles. I looked out over the city, at the broad avenues and grassy parks of ‘Pest’, at the glinting Danube, and at the hills of ‘Buda’ in the west, and wondered whether to buy it. Am I a millionaire? Far from it. I’m just a regular Londoner with some money to invest. I’m not looking at anything worth

Ross Clark

Losing our heritage

Surely, I said, the RAF cannot have bombed them all. No, she said: it was the ‘economic miracle’ which had done for them. Wealthy West Germans had spent the 1960s bulldozing fuddy-duddy old houses and building nice modern chalet bungalows in their place. Soon we will be able to give the same answer in response to the question, why is there not a single fireplace or original architrave left in the whole of Chelsea, Kensington or Hampstead? The answer is London’s own economic ‘miracle’. The City is so wealthy now that you cannot show off your wealth simply by buying a nice house and living in it: you have to

Sinclair McKay

Live and let let

When you tell people, they recoil as though jabbed with a lavatory brush. ‘You mean you still actually pay rent?’ is, in middle-class terms, a question akin to: ‘You mean you still actually listen to Boney M?’ But with this impending property collapse that we keep on scaring each other with — just the other day, a team of expert economists predicted that prices will fall by more than 6 per cent over the next two years — you might soon be hearing a lot more about people like me. People who rent, that is. I will admit that the image of renting a flat is a bad one. One

Alex Massie

NBC continues its mission to destroy its best show

Great. Not content with introducing one ridiculous, potentially series-killing storyline (the whole Landry killing a man and dumping the body in the river thing, you know) Friday Night Lights decides it needs a second: hence this evening’s nonsense about Street seeking a miracle cure in Mexico so he may walk again*. This is schlock. And bad, tedious schlock at that made worse by the fact there are compelling storylines all over Dillon as the football team falls apart, as the Taylor family disintegrates, as Saracen ties to make sense of his life etc etc. Heck, even the Landry-Tyra relationship is fun and sweet and touching and great to watch –

Alex Massie

Serge Toujours

Sweet, sweet piece on the great Serge Gainsbourg in Vanity Fair. Jane Birkin describes their daily routine in the 1970s as follows: they woke up at three in the afternoon; she picked up the children at school and took them to the park, brought them home for a children’s dinner, the au pair would give them a bath, and when the children went to bed she and Serge would kiss them good night and go out on the town. They’d come back “with the dustman,” wait until the children woke up at 7:30, then go to sleep. Their alcohol-fueled nights would often turn, as Jane puts it, “barmy.” Once, at

Alex Massie

Who dares say the Japanese are odd?

The New York Times’ Martin Fackler has your most entertaining story of the day. Magnificent stuff, and oddly charming too: On a narrow Tokyo street, near a beef bowl restaurant and a pachinko parlor, Aya Tsukioka demonstrated new clothing designs that she hopes will ease Japan’s growing fears of crime. Deftly, Ms. Tsukioka, a 29-year-old experimental fashion designer, lifted a flap on her skirt to reveal a large sheet of cloth printed in bright red with a soft drink logo partly visible. By holding the sheet open and stepping to the side of the road, she showed how a woman walking alone could elude pursuers — by disguising herself as

James Forsyth

A moral nation?

Under the arresting headline “Wanted: a national culture”, The Times carries an extract from the Chief Rabbi’s new book. Here’s the key section of Jonathan Sack’s argument: “In 1961, suicide ceased to be a crime. This might seem a minor and obviously humane measure, but it was the beginning of the end of England as a Christian country; that is, one in which Christian ethics was reflected in law. It was a prelude to other and more significant reforms. In 1967 abortion was legalised, as was homosexual behaviour. Collectively these changes represented a decisive move away from the idea that society had, or was entitled to have, a moral code

Tamzin Lightwater

Notting Hill Nobody | 20 October 2007

Sunday Bonjour, mes amis! Am in Paris for Compassionate Conservative hen weekend! All the girls from the office are here giving Abby from Dave’s team a Right-Of-Centre-Yet-Modern send-off. Staying in what Poppy describes as a dump, but is actually a boho chic boutique hotel (I checked the brochure). We were going to stay at a place called the George but it flooded, or something. Every time we drive down the Champs Elysées everyone sighs, and says, ‘Ah, the George sank’. V odd. Also, what is ‘Urmeez’ — and what does it have to do with scarves? Anyway, big party tonight. We are dressing up as blue bunny girls and going