Society

Saturday

Simon Heffer

Diary – 19 March 2005

A friend of the royal family’s lamented the other day that the Princess Royal, for reasons about which he could only speculate, has declined her mother’s offer of a dukedom and, therefore, a place in the nobility for her son and his heirs. This does seem an extreme act of self-effacement by one who, unlike some of her tribe, works extremely hard and doesn’t insist on using the company helicopter just to nip out to Tesco. Also, thanks to Mr Blair’s brilliant reform of the House of Lords, even if her son became the 2nd Duke he would not inherit the right to sit in the legislature. It was allegedly

Boris Johnson

The fear, the squalor …and the hope | 19 March 2005

This article first ran in the 3rd May 2003 issue of The Spectator Baghdad We could tell something was up as soon as we approached the petrol station. There was an American tank parked amid a big crowd of jerrycan-toting Iraqis. Unusually, the soldiers were down and walking around, guns at the ready. Then I heard shouting and saw the Americans using their carbines like staves to push back some of the customers, who were evidently trying their luck. Just then a black sergeant near me started shouting at an Iraqi. ‘You, I’ve told you to get away from there,’ he said, swinging his gun round. The Iraqi appeared to

Simon Hoggart

Unanswered questions

We still aren’t sure why, two summers ago, Dr David Kelly killed himself. I don’t believe for one moment he was murdered — cui bono? And, for example, I have no doubt the mysterious men in black near the scene really were policemen. Yet it does remain puzzling. The general view seems to be that he was a man who prized above everything his integrity and his honesty. However, faced with the loss of his job and pension he dissembled about what he had told Andrew Gilligan. At the meeting with the Commons Foreign Affairs Committee, he realised he had been rumbled — he suffered a terrible blow to his

Jaspistos

Torquemada

In Competition No. 2383 you were asked to supply a poem (preferably with rhymes) in which each line contains an anagram (more than one word can be involved). I intended this comp to be torture, I hoped that my postbag would consequently be light this week, I even tackled my own task but didn’t get much further than: ‘A horse along a shore can happily trot: A carthorse in an orchestra cannot.’ To my amazement, I was landed with a big entry that glittered with ingenuity. (Some of you, I suspect, own anagram dictionaries, and why not?) Commendations to Tim Raikes, Andrew Brison and Basil Ransome-Davies. The winners, printed below,

Christopher Fildes

One last canter round the Budget course but now it’s time to dismount

This is where I came in. Another Gordon Brown budget: how well we know them by now — the thumping delivery, the gabbled numbers, the loopholes closed and opened, so many initiatives, so much complexity, so many popular causes. British films, British science, children’s centres, cars propelled by fuel made from processed hen-droppings — are they all there this year? (Yes.) Are these the same schemes as last year’s? (Quite likely.) By now some of his audience must think that this is what budgets are like. They can never have seen or heard anyone else’s. Old hands have learnt to listen for the gaps between the sentences. What has he

Paul Johnson

A message of hope from a teeming church in Kensington

We are living through, or so it is universally assumed, the last days of a great pope. John Paul II rescued the Catholic Church from the self-destructive course on which it was drifting into oblivion, and put it firmly back on its traditional verities. He is a man of long and painful experience, acquired in dealing with the twin evils of Nazism and communism; a wise, bold and strong man, but also a priest of deep and rational compassion, a pontiff for all seasons of turbulence and trial. The aim of his philosophy is to inculcate in us what he calls ‘a just use for freedom’, and his thoughts on

Matthew Parris Matthew Parris

Rob Tony Blair of the reputation for winning and you have robbed him of everything

Catch your opponent unawares. Hit him with an accusation which he cannot come straight back at and answer. While he flails, change the subject fast. Move to a new charge. Keep changing the subject before your opponent has got to grips with the last one. Be like a Boy David with his sling, light on his feet, dancing round an infuriated Goliath of a rebuttal machine which wheels round too late to hit back. This was William Hague’s technique at Prime Minister’s Questions when he led the Conservative party. In the Commons it worked. Mr Hague was the last Tory leader able regularly to get the better of Tony Blair.

Interconnect

Alice doesn’t live here any more

Alice Thomas Ellis, the novelist and former Spectator columnist who died last week, once took part in an earnest feminist questionnaire that asked her to name the most important event in women’s history. ‘The Annunciation,’ she replied. Alice — known to all her friends by her real name, Anna — bore the physical aspect of a sensitive north London novelist: her huge, panda eyes were pools of compassion, framed by wispy hair and hand-made earrings. When people discovered that she was a Catholic — indeed, that it was the most important thing in her life — they sometimes assumed that she belonged to the Church’s ‘justice ’n’ peace’ brigade and

Susan Crosland

How I escaped from my hospital hell

You thought it was difficult to get into an NHS bed? Try getting out when the bureaucrats say no. In my own case you might have thought they would urge me to be gone, for I was a bad patient. Normally I have a high pain threshold, but that Monday as I came round from the general anaesthetic the pain was sensational and I took it personally. Returned to my ward, the curtains drawn around my bay, I heard the sounds of a nearby patient being prepared to be wheeled to the operating theatre. I also heard a woman shouting ‘Do not let Dr Mooney operate on you. Dr Mooney

John Laughland

The devils’ advocate

For most people, to defend a blood-stained tyrant is perverse and shocking; to defend two seems like recklessness. Yet the causes of both Saddam Hussein and Slobodan Milosevic are what occupy Ramsey Clark, 78, as he crowns a political career that started with his appointment to the US government on the first day of the Kennedy administration in 1961. Promoted to the post of US attorney general by Lyndon Johnson in 1967, Clark’s left-liberal political trajectory has taken him so far from the political mainstream that he is now campaigning for the rights of the two most hated men in the world. Is he mad? These men’s very names resound

Boris Johnson

Out of the ashes

Baghdad As the Puma chugs over Baghdad I look out over the machine gun and I have to admit I am full of a sudden wistfulness. I have been here before, almost two years ago exactly. It was a week after the end of the war, and in those days my feelings were of nervous hope. I jogged by the twinkling Tigris. I ate out in restaurants — shoarma and chips, served with every sign of friendliness. I wandered around without a flak jacket and shoved my notebook under people’s noses, and said things like, ‘What do you think of George Bush, hmmm?’ And now look at the dear old

Saturday

The Spectator

Portrait of the Week – 12 March 2005

The government was defeated in the House of Lords by 249 to 119 when a Liberal Democrat amendment to the Prevention of Terrorism Bill was passed — to apply the prior sanction of a judge rather than the say-so of a home secretary to all proposed control orders, not merely those that stipulated house arrest. The next day five votes in the Lords went against the government; 24 Labour peers voted against their party when a ‘sunset clause’ was added to the Bill. Among those who voted against the government were Lord Irvine, the former Labour Lord Chancellor, and Lord Condon, a former commissioner of the Metropolitan Police. Sir John

The Spectator

Feedback | 12 March 2005

ADHD is an illness I am the mother of a daughter who has Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder (ADHD). For the past 23 years I have protected her and defended myself against the sort of opinionated, didactic comments made on this disorder by people such as your writer Leo McKinstry (‘Not ill — just naughty’, 26 February) and I am sick of being told that this condition is nothing more than an excuse for bad behaviour brought about exclusively by bad parenting. While Mr McKinstry fully acknowledges that this is a medically accepted condition that can be quite clearly seen on an MRI brain scan, he condemns the professionals by decrying

Charles Moore Charles Moore

The Spectator’s Notes | 12 March 2005

Right-minded people are fighting to retain habeas corpus. We would have more popular success, I feel, if the public knew what habeas corpus meant. The trouble is that, even translated into English, it is still obscure. Habeas corpus means, of course, ‘you may have the body’. The IRA seem to have their own interpretation of the phrase. First, their men murder Robert McCartney, splitting his abdomen from his navel to his breastbone, severing his jugular vein and gouging out one of his eyes. Next, they deny involvement. Then, when protests grow too loud, they say that witnesses should come forward, though without talking to the police. Finally, when that won’t

Dot Wordsworth

Mind Your Language | 12 March 2005

I enjoyed the book Long Live Latin rather more than the Spectator reviewer (5 February) seems to have done, and its author, John Gray, has put his finger on a misleading passage in Lynne Truss’s famous book, Eats, Shoots & Leaves: The Zero Tolerance Approach to Punctuation. (I’m not sure I wouldn’t have hyphenated ‘Zero-Tolerance Approach’, but no matter.) Mr Gray takes a sentence from the prophet Isaiah (xxxx 1): Consolamini consolamini populus meus dicit Deus vester. This is translated in the Authorised Version (which Americans and people who say ‘toilet’ call the King James Bible) as, ‘Comfort ye, comfort ye, my people, saith your God.’ Lynne Truss asks whether

Taki

Urban sprawl

A letter to the editor from Frederick Forsyth takes me to task. Enough about Gstaad is its message. OK, but only because it’s you, Freddy baby. Instead, I will treat you to a rivet-by-rivet description of tattooed oiks and thick-ankled slappers puking their guts out in urine-drenched Manchester pubs, my one thousand and one nights of exotic oriental pleasures in a Liverpool nightclub and — of course — my threesome with Ken Livingstone and Nicky Haslam. Incidentally, if you believe that, you surely must also believe Piers Morgan’s diaries. Bloody hell! Why is it that when a diarist quotes others addressing him by his Christian name ad nauseam, as Morgan

Frank Keating

Solid Gold

To tell the truth, I am not a mad racing man, nor has betting much bothered me. Down the years I was dispatched often enough by the Guardian (then drearily prudish about racing) to keep an eye on the classics (as well as, I fancy, on the appetites and expenses of its wonderful, unappreciated racing writer Richard Baerlein) and found myself regularly caught up in the tizz and fizz of it all. And I’ve enjoyed always some of the sport’s other writers of info and grandeur, from Jack Leach, Lord Oaksey and Brough Scott, to the Spec’s own surreptitious star in the hedge at the morning gallops, Robin Oakley. But

Mary Killen

Your Problems Solved | 12 March 2005

Dear Mary… Q. What can one give as a present to friends, in their fifties, who are getting married? Both have previously been married to other people and already have all the material goods they could possibly want. Like the Prince of Wales and Mrs Parker Bowles, the couple in question have been secretly in love for many years so something romantic would be appropriate. What do you recommend, Mary? A.Q., Dartmouth A. Why not order some customised stamps to celebrate your friends’ marriage? The Royal Mail now provides a service which allows you to combine a photograph of your choice with a legitimate Royal Mail stamp. A unique set

William Reesmogg

Diary – 12 March 2005

About once a decade, the editor of The Spectator asks me to write a diary column. I always accept, though diaries, contrary to what might be supposed, are among the most difficult types of journalism to write. I accept partly because I like The Spectator, and partly because of an early memory of Peter Fleming; he was Ian Fleming’s brother and, before the Bond books appeared, much the better known of the two. He was the author of a weekly Spectator diary. As a schoolboy I wrote a letter of comment on something he had written. Peter was a kind man and replied with the sort of encouraging letter journalists

Peter Jones

The Spectator Classics Cup 2005

Last year there was one Classics Cup on offer. This year there are no fewer than three: one for the Open competition (any 200-word piece from The Spectator in Latin or Greek prose or verse); one for undergraduates (200 words in Latin or Greek on the theme ‘Tony and Gordon’); and one for school pupils (200 words in Latin or Greek retelling the story of Homer’s Odyssey). For the stars of the Open competition, it will be exquisite business as usual: the chance to take any passage from The Spectator and map the language and concepts of this world on to that of the ancient. Take Steyn: ‘If Rumsfeld were