Society

Saturday

Petronella Wyatt

Scrambled eggs

I don’t mind rude letters, really I don’t. I don’t mind much, actually, which probably illustrates a fatal weakness in my character. But I do mind having eggs thrown at me. There I was opening my front door the other evening and, wham, splat, an egg was hurled in my direction. With unusual dexterity, I leapt to one side and the egg hit the door before squelching to the ground in a trail of yoke and shards. Then the culprit tailed it. But not before a noise like a gun going off shattered the now still darkness. I bent down and examined the egg. Indignation rose in my breast. It

Mary Killen

Your Problems Solved | 6 November 2004

Dear Mary… Q. My wife and I were recently delighted to receive what appeared at first glance to be an invitation to the wedding of the eldest son of friends. On closer examination we were less pleased to discover that the wedding is to take place in Las Vegas, and our participation is only requested in that we are invited to witness the event on the Internet. The bride and groom have included instructions on how to do this, and a link to the John Lewis website where they have a wedding present list to which we are encouraged to contribute. Am I an old fuddy-duddy in considering the entire

Frank Keating

Peerless Wigan

Wise guys steer clear of soccer till the clocks go back. The long muddy slurp and slog of winter are now properly under way. Mind you, this time autumn’s warm-up lap has offered an instructive preamble if not, as we shall doubtless see by Easter, a necessarily telling one. In England, the cosmopolitan London strut of Arsenal and Chelsea heads the Premiership parade (in Scotland — yawn, yawn — it is already Celtic and Rangers ahead by a street). It could yet be significant that the three moneybags clubs which traditionally fancy themselves — Liverpool and the Uniteds of Manchester and Newcastle — are already lurching, vaguely insecure, nine points

Robin Oakley

Difficult customers

It didn’t start well at Lingfield on Saturday. I discovered too late that on my walk across the field from the station I had been dribbling £1 coins, carefully saved for Mrs Oakley’s car-parking fund, through a hole in my pocket. And if the nice Chinese lady who mends my pockets smiles sweetly and says ‘too much money’ the next time I take one in for attention, I swear I’ll wring her neck. She clearly hasn’t got a pension fund with Standard Life. Fortunately, this early in the real jumping season I chose to keep most of my money in my wallet for the rest of the afternoon. And when

Mary Wakefield Mary Wakefield

Diary – 6 November 2004

On Friday morning I was drinking a cappuccino in the Piazza del Gesu in Naples with my friend Angus. The sky was free from clouds, the streets were free from other tourists, and no one seemed to care that I had parked my car illegally, facing the wrong way in the middle of a busy taxi rank. At 10.30 a group of men with mandolins materialised and started strumming along as a tiny, red-faced woman belted out folk songs. Within seconds they had an audience of more than 100: young women with pushchairs, grandmothers shaped like baked potatoes, men with cashmere cardigans slung carefully over their shoulders. There were at

Jaspistos

All the rage

In Competition No. 2365 you were invited to supply a piece, written in the style of a fashion editor, expressing enthusiasm for either see-through trousers for men or full plate armour for women. Two confessions (not apologies). First, I lifted this comp from a Spectator of over 40 years ago, and a very good one it proved to be. Second, although one of my sons once trod the dogwalk? in Milan, I am no fashionisto?, and so Solomon-like I invited a Queen of Sheba to help me judge. On the see-through side, I enjoyed Josh Ekroy’s advice that ‘knees are now just as important as an erotic come-on as eyelashes

Christopher Fildes

Four moments of truth — two clear wins, one leap back, one road not taken

Relax. You are under no obligation to read the small print. There is a clause in Europe’s constitution about bringing our economic policies — money and tax — into line with our neighbours’, but it must have got past the Prime Minister, because he has flown to Rome and signed us up for it. In any case, we shall be able to vote on it. In eighteen months or so from now, if he is still with us, he will stage his promised referendum. One other promise of this kind remains outstanding. Before the pound can be submerged in Europe’s single currency, we shall have to vote in favour —

Paul Johnson

Autumn, grand despoiler of beauty, and truth-teller

So autumn has come again, with her blushing and animating hand, searing and spotting, tinting and flaming, making hectic and encrimsoning, concealing decay, death and coming annihilation behind a mesmerising anarchy of colour. I have been out painting, down in Somerset, trying to get down on my oblongs of Whatman the blazing furnaces of reds, yellows and golds in my garden, beyond it and beyond the place where the indigenous fowl — geese, ducks and chickens mostly — fend off the rooks which raid their food from the darkening sky, a line of gilded birches glitter fantastical against the dark green fields. Autumn does not last: there is one perfect

Interconnect

Do little people go to heaven?

When they showed on television the cave on the island of Flores where the remains of little people had been found, I felt, I admit, a Yeatsian frisson that the world of politics cannot give. It was not delight at a new branch on the hat-stand of anthropoid evolution, but the thought that in the thick Indonesian rainforest there were (or had been, perhaps as recently as the time when dodos lived) creatures with whom we could converse, but which were not men. The appetite for talking to other creatures is amply exemplified by our often exasperated one-sided conversations: ‘Get off the bloody table, Tigger, there’s a good cat.’ The

Radek Sikorski

Yearning to breathe free

Radek Sikorski says Russia is using strong-arm tactics to see that its man is returned in Ukraine’s presidential elections The architecture of Independence Square in central Kiev is late Brezhnev but the ambience is Prague 1989. Groups of people stand around tables scattered with the propaganda of the various candidates, or make impassioned speeches to cameras. The atmosphere of a genuine election, one in which the outcome is uncertain — so rare now in the former Soviet Union — is unmistakable. Boys and girls with orange scarves hand out campaign leaflets. It’s cool to be political and there is a sense of hope, urgency and foreboding that I last witnessed

Jane Kelly

Searching for Stan

I feel like Job. Everything of significance is being stripped from me. In August my flat in west London was badly flooded; on 25 September I lost my job; on Monday lunch-time, 25 October, my beloved cat Stan, apparently terrified at the sight and sound of me knocking in a fence post, took off and hasn’t been seen since. In the six years since he came in as a stray, Stan has never spent a whole night out of my bed. He is rather cowardly and weighs a stone and a half, so he is not given to gadding about. On the morning after Stan took off I looked out

Saturday

The Spectator

Feedback | 30 October 2004

Bush and Blair, ‘terrorists’ Freedom, democracy and liberation. These terms, as enunciated by Bush and Blair, essentially mean death, destruction and chaos. Tony Blair describes the insurgents as terrorists. There is clearly a body of foreign nationals which has entered Iraq since the invasion and which is committing terrorist atrocities. But the heart of the insurgency is widespread Iraqi resistance to a brutal and savage military occupation. Cutting off somebody’s head is a barbaric act. But so is the dropping of cluster bombs on totally innocent people and tearing them apart. At least 20,000 civilians have been killed in Iraq and many thousands more mutilated for life. We don’t see

Mary Killen

Your Problems Solved | 30 October 2004

Q. From time to time three friends and I have enjoyed an occasional game of mixed doubles. Over the past couple of years my tennis partner has seen rapid promotion in the publishing company in which she works and corresponding with her success at work we have noticed an uncharacteristic and growing display of aggression on court. Indeed, our friend’s net play has recently become so threatening that when her racket comes into contact with the tennis ball, the opposition now frequently turn their backs in the forlorn hope of avoiding the ball thundering over the net and causing serious bodily injury. The last straw occurred a couple of weeks

Frank Keating

Remember the rumble

Thirty years ago this very day took place what some sages nominate as the greatest single happening in the whole history of sports. Which I reckon is stretching it a bit. Just consider a few hundred other back-page occurrences — from Genesis Kid Cain v. Sugar Boy Abel to, well, last week’s Boston Red Sox resurrection which turned 0–3 to 4–3 in the Yankee Stadium. Nevertheless, it sure was some showstopper on 30 October 1974 when big, bad ‘unbeatable’ boxer George Foreman was rumbled in the jungle by Muhammad Ali. Where were you that dead of night when London closed down for a witching hour — to watch the epic

The Spectator

Portrait of the Week – 30 October 2004

An order laid before Parliament by Mr David Blunkett, the Home Secretary, will enable juries to be told of defendants’ previous convictions if they touch on ‘an important matter in issue’, such as ‘a propensity to commit offences of the kind’ alleged. The Lords voted 322 to 72 to reinstate the government’s original Bill on hunting, which the Commons had amended. The government acquiesced in the removal of Britain’s veto on European legislation about immigration and asylum, as adumbrated in the Amsterdam Treaty of 1999. Mr Denis MacShane, the European affairs minister, visited Kosovo to take Serbs to task for turning a deaf ear to his instructions not to boycott

Charles Moore Charles Moore

The Spectator’s Notes

There isn’t enough dialogue between Islam and other faiths, so when invited to address the admirable Three Faiths Forum, chaired by Sir Sigmund Sternberg, I happily agreed, and went to the mosque in the Whitechapel Road last week. I had been asked to raise worries I had expressed in an article about some aspects of Islam today. One was whether Islam has enough of a separation of Church and State (as Christians put it) in its teaching. Another was to ask how clearly Muslim teachers distinguished between conversion by preaching and by conquest, and how absolute they were in their condemnation of religiously motivated violence. One example I cited was

Peter Oborne

Blair’s duplicity may be deliberate, or he may just change his mind a lot

Very few political decisions achieve nothing but good: one of them was the abolition of exchange controls exactly 25 years ago. This week the Adam Smith Institute rightly marked the anniversary with a dinner at the St Ermin’s hotel. Geoffrey Howe, the chancellor who masterminded the stroke, reflected on how monumental the judgment — so obvious in retrospect — appeared at the time. Lord Howe revealed that it was the only occasion in his career that he lost sleep on account of a policy decision, while Margaret Thatcher was all but overcome by last-minute nerves. Nigel Lawson, financial secretary in 1979, used the event to muse on how political judgments

The Spectator

Half a cheer for Bush

Next Tuesday an unhappy choice confronts the American people. To suffer a gloating Mark Steyn. Or to endure the sight of a jubilant Michael Moore thumping the air in the belief that he has just personally saved the world from military and ecological disaster. Grim though these alternatives are, with heavy heart we are minded to favour the first, and urge Americans to vote for Bush. It is a cliché that this year’s presidential candidates are the least inspiring for years. American presidential candidates are always the least inspiring for years. Grimacing from across the Atlantic at the choice before the American people — hawk or super-hawk, right-wing nutcase or

Jaspistos

The club armchair

In Competition No. 2364 you were invited to supply the opening, set in a club, to the sort of 19th-century tale mocked by H.E. Bates: ‘Four of us were having a sundowner when Carruthers, apropos of nothing, remarked …’. Bates also provided an appropriate ending: ‘It is not for us to judge. But I believe if ever there was a good man it was Roger Carpenter.’ I didn’t invite you to begin your story with Bates’s actual words, but if you did I had no objection. Where have all those clubmen’s names gone? Why doesn’t one run into a Carstairs, Carruthers, Ponsonby or Marjoribanks? Have they gone into hiding in

Taki

Just say no

Like everyone else, I might as well get my two-cents in while the story’s still hot. About the sainted one’s problems with Liverpool, that is. What a crock! I might be accused of pandering, but to hell with them. When I went over the top about the Puerto Rican parade some time ago, it looked like curtains. The then Big Bagel mayor Rudy Giuliani threatened to have me deported, and all sorts of busybodies got in on the act. But no one from The Spectator forced me to do anything like what Michael Howard did to dear old Boris. In fact, on the contrary, Frank Johnson even went so far