Society

Wednesday

David Selbourne

The Islamists are winning

The philosopher David Selbourne says that Israel’s battle with Hezbollah is a microcosm of a worldwide struggle. While the West is in moral crisis, Islam is seizing its chance to become the Church Militant of the 21st century Truth is generally the first casualty in war. On the battlefields of the Middle East, especially when Israel is involved, Reason also has a hard time of it. For neither Israel nor the Jews are seen — whether by themselves, by their friends, or by their foes — as a nation and a people like others. One form of irrationality, shared by (some) evangelical Christians and (some) Jews, has it that Israel

Simon Hoggart

Spectator Wine Club July Offer

This offer is, I think, exceptional value. Merchants occasionally overstock on first-rate wines which don’t sell off the page. Order the wines online This offer is, I think, exceptional value. Merchants occasionally overstock on first-rate wines which don’t sell off the page. For example, if you saw, on the list published by the old and distinguished house Averys, something called Rare Spice Petit Verdot at £71 a case, you might wonder what on earth it was, and why you should pay nearly £6 a bottle for a grape you’ve never heard of from a winery you don’t know. But seeing it at £4.58, and being told that it is a

Douglas Hurd

Half a century on, the ghosts of Suez return

Fifty years since Suez, and this week the cauldron boils over yet again. Some of the ingredients are different. Britain and France used force in a way they would not now dare. The United States in 1956 had the power to stop the crisis which it has now lost. Most Arabs today accept the existence of Israel, but fail to impose that acceptance on those still bent on its destruction. Israel still tries to safeguard its citizens by using overwhelming force which breeds hatred and future danger. Suez was a dramatic setback for Britain; but this week we can look back almost with relief at how quickly that crisis was

Jaspistos

A good innings

In Competition No. 2452 you were invited to write an elegy on the death, in Queensland, Australia, of a 176-year-old tortoise called Harriet, who had met Darwin in the Galapagos Islands and was for most of her life wrongly thought to be male. D.H. Lawrence, Marianne Moore and Ogden Nash have all written lyrically about tortoises, so you were in good company. As for Harriet (whose parents were Testudo and Tartarus and whose favourite snacks were aubergine, courgette, beans and barley), a biologist tells me that it’s not as simple as you might think to tell the sex of a tortoise. Just try it! I realise now that my childhood

Irwin Stelzer

Bush wants much more than ceremonial diplomacy

Washington It is not to be. Secretary of State Condoleezza Rice, a more than passable classical pianist, had blocked time in her summer diary for a pleasant meeting with some of the 700 music students attending classes and performing at the Aspen Music Festival and School. President Bush has other ideas. Instead of the cool breezes of the Rocky Mountains, Rice will find herself in the hotter-than-hot Middle East, attempting to bring an end to the two-front war in which Israel finds itself engaged which, in past flare-ups, has been bad news for the Israelis. Rice presides over a department that traditionally holds that almost any deal is better than

Theodore Dalrymple

Medicine and letters | 19 July 2006

I don’t much care for Napoleon, but I’ve always had a sneaking sympathy for Napoleon III. His boundless ambition combined with an ultimate lack of ruthlessness, his self-importance and vanity combined with flashes of insight into his own personal insignificance, make him a far nicer man than his odious uncle. I mean no self-praise when I say that men who are failures are in general much more attractive than men who are resounding successes. It was my sympathy for the Emperor of the French that impelled me to pick up a little volume entitled Napoleon III (My Recollections) by Sir William Fraser, Bart. Sir William was elected MP for Barnstaple

Andrew J. Bacevich

This is not World War Three — or Four

In the immediate aftermath of 9/11, Norman Podhoretz, the distinguished American journalist and neoconservative godfather, penned a series of articles describing the attacks of 11 September 2001 as the opening shots of what he called ‘World War IV’. For Podhoretz, the more commonly used construct ‘global war on terror’ is too generic. Placing 9/11 in its proper context requires fitting it into the grand narrative of contemporary history which, as Podhoretz sees it, began in 1933 in Berlin. For Podhoretz and other neoconservatives — for large numbers of Americans generally — history is above all a morality tale. They prefer simple stories that yield simple and unambiguous truths: about the

Rod Liddle Rod Liddle

It’s so hot that I’m even cross with the evacuees

Yo — Reader! How are ya doin’? Hot and bothered, I suspect; sticky and irritable. And no less so for having been addressed in such a manner, or for being reminded that this is how the leader of the free world addresses those who do his bidding, the lickspittle minions who bring him gifts of questionable knitwear at world summit meetings. (Apparently it was a Burberry jumper our Prime Minister gave to George W. Bush; so if he wore it, he’d be refused entry to quite a large number of public houses and bars in the Leicester area, where Burberry knitwear has become associated with monosyllabic, aggressive troublemakers. Yes, how

Saturday

Mary Killen

Dear Mary… | 15 July 2006

Q. I read your ‘In the Chair’ Q&As in the online edition of The Spectator with interest. In this session you mentioned a dilemma of your own. You told of how your own good manners had once been compromised by your reluctance to dilute a conversation with the great Auberon Waugh by having to introduce hovering friends. I have a similar problem at parties. I am a close friend of an internationally famous actor. Occasionally we meet up at semi-public events, but I am never able to exchange more than a couple of sentences with him before a host of people, some of whom I hardly know, are queueing up

Jeremy Clarke

Give us a clue

If ever I was passing the Courtauld Institute in London with five minutes to spare, I’d chuck the woman behind the desk a fiver, jog up the 300-year-old spiral staircase and go and look at a picture by Wassily Kandinsky called ‘Rapallo: Grey Day’. I know nothing about painting and I knew nothing about Kandinsky except what it said on the wall: that he was Russian and that he travelled around Europe at the turn of the last century with a female artist called Münter. If I thought anything at all, I thought that perhaps Mr Courtauld had unwisely subscribed to someone else’s enthusiasm for a passing fad, but they’d

Taki

Midsummer marriage

Rome Frankly, this was not a cool wedding. There were no security guards, no stretch limos, no Liz Hurleys, no cutting-edge genetic technology, not even a same-sex marriage. Not very with it, I know, but there we are. John Taki and Assia got hitched last Saturday in the most magical setting I have ever seen — a Xanadu. ‘And there were gardens bright with sinuous rills/Where blossomed many an incense-bearing tree;/And here were forests ancient as the hills,/Enfolding sunny spots of greenery.’ Old Sam Coleridge must have visited Prince Nettuno Borghese’s property by the sea, west of Rome, because what Kubla Khan decreed is where my boy got hitched. Assia’s

Simon Courtauld

Eat your hart out

The Countryside Alliance, through its Game-to-Eat campaign, has been doing some good work in promoting venison. It is higher in protein and lower in fat than other red meat; some supermarkets are now offering venison steaks and sausages, but fewer than 10 per cent of the population buy the meat. Since deer numbers in Britain have apparently never been so high, and the government has been advised that they should be reduced by a third, wild venison, generally with a better flavour than deer that have been farmed, should be more generally available. Thanks to friendly persuasion by the Alliance, wild venison was introduced last year on the menus of

Charles Moore Charles Moore

The Spectator’s Notes | 15 July 2006

Because everyone can see that the government can no longer do anything worth doing, there is a widespread assumption that its days are numbered. But this is a non sequitur. In the past, Labour governments could do things only in the short gap between their election victory and their sterling crisis. Conservative governments had a slightly longer effective life, but the Heath administration was pretty much disabled after the failure of its industrial relations legislation in 1972. The period between 1979 and, roughly, 1989 was quite exceptional in having a government that had ideas about what it wanted to do and the political ability to do them. Implosion does not

Frank Keating

The fabled Fred

Yorkshire buried their Fred in his beloved Dales last week. Umpire Dickie Bird gave the main moist-eyed address. Brian Close remembered their debutants’ county curtsey in 1949, both just 18, against Cambridge at Fenners. At the snooty University Arms, the dinner menu was in French. The haughty waiter hovered. Bewildered Brian, the Guiseley mill-worker’s son, passed it blankly to the Maltby miner’s son Fred, already unblinkingly brimful of bluster. ‘Right, sunshine, I’ll begin w’a large plateful o’that,’ he demanded, jabbing his finger at the menu’s top line. It read: Mercredi le deuxième mai. The tales of Trueman were up and running. The fables of Fred. To Fleet Street and the

Friday

Jeff Randall

Diary – 14 July 2006

Berlin, 9 July. It wasn’t meant to be like this. High in the Olympiastadion — Block 28, Row 4, Seat 22 — at 7.45 p.m. local time, I shut my eyes and imagine the sights and sounds which I’d hoped to experience. For a few seconds, this magnificent amphitheatre is draped in red and white flags, ‘Rule Britannia’ fills the air and Becks and the boys are about to do their bit for Harry, England and St George. My reverie is broken by the pungent smell of a cheap cheroot. Puffing away, one row in front of me, is an Italian with Tricolore face paint. He’s becoming hysterical with excitement.

Tamzin Lightwater

Diary of a Notting Hill nobody – 14 July 2006

MONDAY Leaked email trails — 1 (v bad); imploring phonecalls to Dave’s office pretending will have nervous breakdown if sacked — 15 (seems to have worked!); hooded tops delivered to office — 135 (think we’ve struck a chord. Plus some of them are really smart. Am wearing one now, as a matter of fact. It says ‘enta da getto’. Think it’s Italian). Best news is I found the separate bundle of Dave’s responses and burned them in ritualistic anti-leaking ceremony. So no one will ever know what he said about Theresa and Mr Maude (which is just as well because it doesn’t have much to do with our new doctrine

Wednesday

Allister Heath

The rich have never been richer: their predecessors were small fry

The wealthy are now wealthier, more numerous and more socially mobile than at any time in history. But will Gordon Brown’s tax-and-spend policies put an end to this? For the rich and successful, these are the best of times. They are earning more than most had ever dreamt possible and are celebrated in popular culture and courted by the political establishment as never before. Millionaires have become Britain’s fastest-growing social class; every single working day, another hundred people, many of them women, join that once exclusive club, thanks to bumper bonuses or judicious investments. The rich have always been among us, of course, but their current good fortune is utterly

Matthew Dancona

‘The special relationship is safe’

Am I about to become the ‘Spectator One’? Having cleared the first airport-style security check at the US Embassy on Upper Grosvenor Street, I reach a second perimeter inside the building itself. This time the X-ray machine picks up a mysterious electronic device inside my briefcase which turns out to be a mobile phone I do not recognise. Uh-oh. Here I am, on my way to interview the American ambassador, and there is a stray mobile in my case — a potential trigger device, as everyone around me is thinking, but not saying. Not good. Hushed calls are made, a Marine frowns and a plainclothes officer straight out of 24

Paul Johnson

A summer rhapsody for a pedal-bike

Nothing separates men from women more significantly than riding a bicycle. Whenever I see a man on a bike in London, he is invariably breaking the law: riding on the pavement, whizzing through a red light, pedalling arrogantly along our one-way street in the forbidden direction. I have never seen a woman doing any of these things. Their cycling is strictly utilitarian, economical, discreet, at modest speeds and on machines which have no element of display. What does this tell us about the sexes? Well, it certainly makes me revert again to my technological vision of the future, in which men have been eliminated, their prime function taken over by

Simon Baker

In Cold Skin, a brilliantly suspenseful début novel

In Cold Skin, a brilliantly suspenseful début novel by Albert Sánchez Piñol set in the years after the end of the first world war, a young man arrives on a desolate Antarctic island, where for the next 12 months he will study the local climate. Oddly, his predecessor, who was due to be collected, cannot be found; there is only a half-mad lighthouse-keeper, who appears to be the island’s only other inhabitant — or so it seems until night falls, when the man hears the patter of feet outside his window. The novel borrows from so many popular genres — horror, thriller, B-movie — and yet ultimately transcends them all