Society

Is that a bug under your boardroom table?

The news that Michael Howard, the former leader of the Conservative party, is to become the European chairman of Diligence, a US-based corporate intelligence company, is the latest sign of gentrification in a sector that was once seen as the preserve of shifty types who rifle through bins under cover of darkness. There is still a role for that sort of operator, but as the commercial investigation game gets serious, a growing number of private investigators have a background in investment banking or the law. Indeed, one security industry analyst, Equitable Services, has predicted that the global private security market could be worth £150 billion by 2010, fuelled by mushrooming

Say no to protectionism — and let’s get down to business with Claudia Schiffer

The World Cup is not really my bag, but already it’s done its bit to pep up my GWB (that’s ‘general wellbeing’, for those not yet fluent in Cameron-speak). Eleven giant posters have been plastered around Bank station featuring Claudia Schiffer draped in a German flag. They’re part of a campaign to encourage investment in Germany and feature saucy slogans such as ‘Want to get down to business?’ and ‘Come over to my place’. Schiffer is an ideal ambassador for Germany. With her hairless armpits and winning smile, the supermodel is a world away from those moustachioed shot-putters who used to fly the flag for German womanhood. In fact, the

Watches? Not for me

When I was seven my father gave me a duty-free Timex, my first watch. I loved it, wore for it years, and haven’t had another one since it stopped ticking a decade ago. Why? Because I don’t need one. I have a mobile phone and a laptop and I’m always near someone with an iPod or a Blackberry. All these devices display the time — which is why, if you look around, you’ll see loads of empty wrists: sales of watches to young adults fell 10 per cent in 2005. But while the sensible have realised that they don’t need them, others — apparently including distinguished Spectator contributors — are

Rupert Murdoch’s cool new thing

Rupert Murdoch is probably the last person in the world who would use an online social networking service, but he may be the first to make serious money out of the concept. MySpace, which he bought for $580 million in 2005, is one such service, and it may or may not be the coolest thing on the internet. It has about 70 million users, but is already being squeezed by an upstart website called Bebo which is attracting a greater share of UK visitors. Nevertheless, Murdoch-watchers see MySpace as the next big weapon in his relentless battle to maintain global media dominance. But what exactly is an online social networking

Fraser Nelson

The real father of Cameronism

Any attempt to trace the intellectual origins of today’s new Conservative party leads fairly quickly to the space between David Willetts’s ears. For the best part of two decades, he has been arguing for the need for a softer-focus social agenda which would resonate with voters who were convinced that hard-edged Thatcherism had nothing to offer them. In the early 1990s he called this ‘civic conservatism’ — yet it was lost in the messy decline of the Major years. Now, it is called Cameronism and is universally lauded. But rather than be fêted, Mr Willetts must watch like an inventor without a patent as his ideas are put to use

Rod Liddle

Killing a gay man is no worse than killing a disc jockey

Sarah Porter may turn out to be Britain’s most prolific serial killer of recent years. Right now, she is behind bars. Porter contracted HIV from a lover and, when she discovered her predicament, set about passing on the virus to as many men as she could, by ‘encouraging’ them to have unprotected sex with her. When caught by the police she refused to co-operate, naming no names. The police believe that the number of men it is known for a fact that she tried to infect — four — is ‘only the tip of the iceberg’. The life expectancy for someone with HIV/Aids is, mercifully, much improved on what it

The weather in the streets

In Competition No. 2448 you were invited to write a poem entitled ‘A Description of a City Shower’. The poet of rain is undoubtedly Hardy. His titles fairly drip with it — ‘A Wet August’, ‘A Drizzling Easter Morning’, ‘Rain on a Grave’ and, more to the point, ‘A Thunderstorm in Town’, which charmingly features a snatched kiss inside a hansom cab. I can’t resist quoting the last three lines from Swift’s poem with our title:Sweepings from butchers’ stalls, dung, guts, and blood,Drowned puppies, stinking sprats, all drenched in mud,Dead cats and turnip-tops come tumbling down the flood.I expected ‘a City shower’ to be interpreted by some as a mob

Dear Mary… | 17 June 2006

Q. I recently celebrated my CP (civil partnership), having been with my boyfriend for almost 21 years. I had planned it for months and arranged a flamenco evening at a smart venue in St James’s in London. We were restricted by the number of people we could ask, so I expected that all those who RSVPd in the positive would definitely show up. Can you imagine how disappointed I was when several people didn’t show up? Some had illnesses, and I could fully understand those, but one or two had lame excuses about baby-sitters and missing a train. Should I forgive them, as not only did I have to pay

Letters to the Editor | 17 June 2006

Al-Bashir’s immunity From Ralph Blumenau Sir: Peter Oborne’s powerful piece about the ethnic cleansing in Darfur and eastern Chad (‘Darfur’s terrible export’, 10 June) has only one strange omission. Here, as in almost all media reports, we are told that ‘the Sudanese government’ is actively helping the murderous Janjaweed, but the dictator who heads that government, Omar Hasan Ahmed al-Bashir, is not named. It is as if one had never referred to the crimes of Saddam Hussein, but only to those of ‘the Iraqi government’. Why is al-Bashir being given this cloak of relative anonymity by our media? For the genocidal misery he has inflicted upon his people for years,

Mind your language | 17 June 2006

My husband suddenly found it necessary to discuss some hair-raising medical developments with other doctors in the sunshine of an out-of-season ski resort in the Pyrenees, and for once he let me come too, and enjoy some healthy walks while the menfolk were playing at Frankenstein. Perhaps he had heard they have reintroduced wild bears in the Pyrenees. Well I wasn’t eaten by a bear, but I did get an appetising sample of a language that I hardly knew existed. I don’t mean Basque, which is a language that does not belong to the Indo–European group. This one does, and it is called Aranese (Aranes by its speakers). It is

American blunders

From my open window in Cadogan Gardens I can hear a woman’s lovely voice singing something from Mozart’s Requiem; at least I think it’s Mozart’s oeuvre. One can never go wrong with Wolfie at a hot and brilliant sunny day’s end, especially when the rest of the world’s slobs are out there singing football songs and other such rubbish. God, I find football boring. Even more boring than clay-court tennis. The only team I’m rooting for is Germany, but it has nothing to do with the Wehrmacht. The Germans are playing attacking football, and will pay the price for it, but who cares? Better a German blitzkrieg that ends in

Charles Moore

The Spectator’s Notes | 17 June 2006

Major Bruce Shand, father of the Duchess of Cornwall, who died at the weekend, was a man of great charm. He had a very attractive combination of enough confidence to put you at your ease and enough diffidence not to seem arrogant. In old age he had a lovely, interesting, funny face — creased, like a more military, bucolic version of W.H. Auden. Although he did not seem in the least bitter, it hurt him a great deal that the press persecuted his daughter — bringing grief also to his wife — for so long. But he stuck to the old principle, which he referred to as ‘FHB’ (‘Family Hold

Leading article: From Guantanamo to Forest Gate

After the initial horror — 9/11, Madrid, 7 July The purpose of terrorism is not only to cause bloodshed, but also to spray psychological shrapnel across the societies it attacks and seeks to subvert. After the initial horror — 9/11, Madrid, 7 July — the strategic objective is to force democracies, in their rage and panic, to make mistakes, to falter, and to resort to internal squabbling. Action is supplanted by introspection. It is this that links the botched police raid in Forest Gate, east London, on 2 June with the suicide of three inmates at Guantanamo Bay, who were discovered hanged in their cells on 10 June. The next day, Colleen

Martin Vander Weyer

Time for a naked protest against global cant and in support of Jeremy Clarkson

Time for a naked protest against global cant and in support of Jeremy Clarkson I was all set to join some of my more liberated neighbours on York’s Naked Bike Ride last Friday, until I discovered that it was yet another protest against ‘global oil dependency’. The debate about climate change, carbon emissions and who is doing what to the planet has reached such a fever pitch of self-righteousness and middle-class guilt that it is time for sensible people to start backpedalling. The first thing that made me want to launch my own naked protest against global cant was the pronouncement by Dr Antonio Filippone of Manchester University that if

The history boys

Last Saturday afternoon in Frankfurt’s tent-like Waldstadion, British football writing’s dumpling eminence Malcolm Brodie, 80 next birthday, laid out his pad and his pencils at his pressbox desk. ‘What’s new?’ he could have been excused for muttering in that tinny Ulster snort of his, but the rheumy eyes, deep set in his weathered, walnutty old face, were bright with anticipation for the start of the Belfast Telegraph man’s 14th World Cup. It was all of 52 summers ago that Malcolm first picked up his telephone to dictate a report of a World Cup match — Scotland’s narrow 0–1 defeat by Austria in Zurich in 1954’s fifth World Cup in Switzerland.

Diary – 16 June 2006

I feel something of a gooseberry as Mikhail Gorbachev and Margaret Thatcher sit snugly side by side on a sofa in the upstairs room of The Ivy. They are sort of flirting, bonding over old times and cold climes as the magic of their relationship is quickly rekindled. At one moment they clutch each other’s hands, giggling at how they fought their corners in their early talks at Chequers. It is moving to see such intimacy and warmth between these two old titans who together with Ronald Reagan literally changed the world. My fellow hosts, Evgeny and Alexander Lebedev, and I all fade into the background as the Iron Lady

Diary of a Notting Hill Nobody – 16 June 2006

Hot: where’s the glacier when you need it? MONDAY Hot: where’s the glacier when you need it? Am sick of trawling internet for violent lyrics Dave can use for campaign against rap: just because someone called ‘Lethal Bizzle’ said he was a ‘donut’ — I don’t even understand why this is an insult. Various references to cracking skulls, shooting up and hanging with crews — or should I say ‘crewz’? Found repeated use of ‘their’ instead of ‘there’, possessive its with an apostrophe etc. Honeztly, Dave should launch a campaign against bad spelling in hip-hop if you ask me. Thankfully, we are moving on soon. Our next campaign is an

In praise of the patriotic playwright

Ronald Harwood, the Oscar-winning writer of The Pianist and The Dresser, tells Tim Walker that he is delighted to be in demand — but never wants to be ‘fashionable’ I first came face to face with Ronald Harwood three years ago as we were waiting for our coats after the party to mark the opening of the Saatchi Gallery in the old County Hall building in London. Two disgruntled lines of people had converged and he thought I was queue-barging and I thought he was. It could have gone either way. Either a big row or the start of a friendship. Happily, it was the latter. Harwood does charm but