Society

Saturday

The Spectator

Feedback | 2 October 2004

Entrapped by Europe Niall Ferguson (‘Britain first’, 25 September) stands history on its head in claiming that ‘it was precisely the unreliability of the United States’ as both an ally and an export market which ‘convinced Britain’s political elite’ that they must ‘abandon the Churchillian dream of a bilateral Atlantic partnership’ by joining the EEC. On the contrary (as Richard North and I show in our book The Great Deception), Harold Macmillan’s greatest concern in 1961 was that if Britain threw in her lot with ‘Europe’, this might imperil the ‘special relationship’ with America. What finally convinced Macmillan was Kennedy’s assurance in April 1961 that British EEC membership could only

Mary Killen

Your Problems Solved | 2 October 2004

Q. My flatmate recently departed for a fortnight’s holiday, leaving behind several days’ worth of dirty plates. When I asked if he’d mind washing them up before going, he replied that he had no intention of doing so, because he knew I’d do them if he left them. In this he was, unfortunately, correct. I am infuriated by this calculated act of selfishness, but do not wish to aggravate the situation. How can I prick his conscience and force an apology for this unacceptable behaviour?T.M., London W5 A. Go away for a holiday or a weekend yourself, and generate a pile of dishes for your flatmate to clear up in

Antonia Fraser

From Africa back to Scotland

The publishing world is full of romantic stories, not every one with a happy ending. (I was brought up on the tale, possibly apocryphal, that Evelyn Waugh’s brother-in-law, Edward Grant, kept a framed copy of his letter turning down Gone with the Wind in his office.) One truly happy story, however, so far without an end, is that of Alexander McCall Smith. With a day job as Professor of Medical Law at Edinburgh University, he is the author of The No. 1 Ladies Detective Agency series, creator of the immortal Mma Precious Ramotswe, she of the ‘traditional’ Botswana build. Published originally in hardback by the small Edinburgh firm of Polygon,

Michael Gove

Power to the people

As a journalist I got used to asking questions. As an apprentice politician I’ve had to get used to answering them. And that has meant learning all over again that the simplest questions to ask are the trickiest to answer. Most of my acquaintances have been extraordinarily encouraging about my decision to relinquish a journalistic career at the Times in the hope of being elected as the MP for Surrey Heath. But the father of one friend was perplexed. Sufficiently so to ask the question I least expected. It wasn’t ‘Why have you done it?’ He could quite understand why someone would want to give up the frustrations of shouting

Friday

Doris Lessing

Diary – 1 October 2004

Literary festivals, as usually reported, sound like pop concerts, with happy audiences and complacent writers, but that is only part of it. They are not alike. You may need wellies for one and sunscreen for another. Nor are the provisions alike. In Edinburgh this year my publishers forgot to send the book I was promoting, or rather selling. When I complained, much more in sorrow than in anger, there was a flurry of concern, and then the report came, ‘But it wasn’t us, the fault was in Glasgow.’ That’s all right then. But HarperCollins is usually very good, and often better than good. Edinburgh may be a place too far,

John Laughland

Bloody hypocrisy

A brutal-looking 17-year-old girl takes a long swig from a bottle of sake and thumps it down on the bar, as an ugly- looking man next to her asks her if she likes Ferraris. ‘Do you want to screw me?’ she replies. ‘Yes,’ he says, his goofy and surprised smile revealing bad teeth. She immediately stabs him in the stomach and, as his blood gurgles out, she says triumphantly, ‘How does that feel? Do you still want to penetrate me now?’ He falls off the bar stool, dead — and the audience laughs. A voiceover from a third character confirms that the scene is indeed supposed to be funny, and

Saturday

The Spectator

Portrait of the Week – 25 September 2004

Five protesters, who had gained access to Parliament by posing as electricians, invaded the House of Commons during the debate on the Bill to outlaw fox hunting and engaged in scuffles with several officials in tights. Pro-hunting protesters were also out in force in Parliament Square, where several were injured in clashes with riot police. MPs once again voted in favour of a ban, though Tony Blair still hinted at a compromise. Ramblers celebrated the opening of the first tracts of moorland under the ‘right to roam’ legislation but without the countryside minister, Alun Michael, who had been advised by the police to keep away from hunting types. Lord Woolf,

Dot Wordsworth

Mind Your Language | 25 September 2004

In the glorious new Oxford Dictionary of National Biography, which came out on Thursday, the article on Colin Welch says that the Daily Telegraph in his day was for the lumpenbourgeoisie. At first I thought that was merely an ignorant error. The word Lumpen in German means ‘a rag’. Lump means ‘ragamuffin’. Karl Marx is the originator of the term Lumpenproletariat, which he applied to the ‘lowest and most degraded section of the proletariat; the “down and outs” who make no contribution to the workers’ cause’, as the Oxford English Dictionary neatly puts it. Marx did not share Mother Teresa’s regard for the poorest of the poor. Raggedness in early

Jeremy Clarke

Prayer for the day

In church last Sunday, the reading was taken from the first chapter of Paul’s letter to Timothy. ‘Jesus Christ came into the world to save sinners — of whom I am the very worst,’ Paul boasts. I’ve never seen eye to eye with St Paul. He rubs me up the wrong way. Here, his bragging about what a blasphemer and a persecutor and a violent man he was, and how abundantly the Lord has showered him with grace, sounded to me like a newly converted David Brent of The Office. Glancing further down the page, I read that Paul laid the blame for the Fall fairly and squarely on the

Mary Killen

Your Problems Solved | 25 September 2004

Dear Mary… Q. I own a house in Cornwall which I rent out. This August it was taken by a couple who had a constantly changing retinue of guests each week they were there, and kept the cook and cleaner working around the clock. At the end of their four-week tenure, and having told me they had had a fantastic time, they moved out. Trouble is, they did not leave even a penny in tips for either the cook or the cleaner. Of course tips on top of wages are not obligatory, but they are the norm and the cleaner is a local woman whom I have only just been

The Spectator

Rewarding the truth

If Lord Woolf is discovered ’orribly murdered in his cellar, the editor of the Daily Mail may well find himself helping police with their inquiries. There will certainly be a motive: the Lord Chief Justice is not a popular figure with the self-professed keeper of Middle England values. In response to his lordship’s proposal to reduce the effective sentence for murder to ten years in some instances where the accused admits guilt, the Mail ventured: ‘Rarely has a Lord Chief Justice seemed so smug, self-satisfied and remote while the law he is supposed to uphold sinks deeper into disrepute.’ Comparisons spring to mind with Nero, twanging away on his lyre

Melanie Phillips

Let’s bring back stigma and shame

The Turkish government recently announced that it intended to make adultery a criminal offence. This was not altogether surprising, since the Turkish government adheres to the principles of Islam, under whose laws adultery is a crime punishable by flogging or execution. Nevertheless, it caused such uproar among more progressive Turks, not to mention horrifying the EU, which threatened to tear up Turkey’s membership application as a result, that the Turkish government has now binned the proposal (perversely, along with a raft of reforms designed to impress the jittery Europeans; but let that pass). So far, so relatively unexceptional. What was far less predictable, at least to me, was the reaction

Tony Barnett

Aids denial costs lives

The figures are unremittingly stark. Last year alone 2.2 million people died from Aids in sub-Saharan Africa. Twenty-five million people are infected with Aids in Africa. It is not like the Black Death. It is worse. Yet for whatever reason not everyone accepts the seriousness of the Aids epidemic. The South African writer Rian Malan is one of those sceptics. Scion of a famous Afrikaner family, Malan is the author of My Traitor’s Heart, the tortured and much admired 1990 homily on the white man’s relationship with Africa. In The Spectator last Christmas he argued that the Aids epidemic was far less serious than the experts suggest. The story carried

Richard Beeston

The terror, the terror

Baghdad You might have thought that sitting down to watch a series of filmed executions would become tedious after the tenth unfortunate victim is dragged before the camera to be slaughtered like a sheep. After all, most of the characters do not change much. There are the hooded Islamic holy warriors standing to attention, as the charges are read out to the accused, usually a man in an orange jumpsuit kneeling and blindfolded on the floor before them. The sets are the same too, often a dingy cement backroom in a house probably on the outskirts of Baghdad. The build-up is tedious. A martial song in Arabic exhorts the faithful

Niall Ferguson

Britain first

Niall Ferguson says that Tony Blair and George W. Bush are perfect partners — Christian soldiers armed with Bibles and bazookas — but Britain now has more in common with Europe than with the United States ‘I kind of think that the decisions taken in the next few weeks will determine the rest of the world for years to come. As primary players, we have a chance to shape the issues that are discussed. Both of us will have enormous capital and a lot of people will be with us.’ — Tony Blair to George W. Bush, March 2003. Barring some act of God — an authority both men are

Friday

Jemima Lewis

Diary – 24 September 2004

The imminent ban on fox-hunting saddens me mainly for reasons of nostalgia. I am far too much of a sissy ever to have hunted: I would fall off my horse as soon as it moved, and cry if the poor little fox got caught. But I am romantic enough to love the Olde Englishness of the hunt: the Surteesian image of pink-coated squires racing across a pastoral landscape. Although I am a total townie, hunting is part of my family mythology. My grandmother grew up on a Gloucestershire farm amid rabid blood-sports enthusiasts. Her father — a terrifying, hawk-nosed domestic tyrant who once bit his son on the leg for

Saturday

The Spectator

Portrait of the Week – 18 September 2004

Mr Stephen Byers, a former Cabinet minister, popped up on television to talk about Mr Alan Milburn, the new Chancellor of the Duchy of Lancaster with undefined responsibility for drawing up Labour policy before the election; ‘I think he would be an excellent leader of the Labour party and an excellent prime minister.’ Mr Frank Dobson, a former Cabinet minister, said the backbenches were ‘covered in failed prime ministers’. Miss Ruth Kelly became a minister for the Cabinet Office and Mr Kim Howells became minister for higher education. Mr Michael Howard took the opportunity to bring back Mr John Redwood into the shadow Cabinet; Mr Damian Green, Mr John Bercow

Dot Wordsworth

Mind Your Language | 18 September 2004

‘Gresham’s Law,’ said my husband unkindly, possessing himself of the zapper and hopping between channels quite unnecessarily. I had just asked him the difference between an irrational number and a transcendental number. ‘Gresham’s Law’ is his shorthand for: ‘Something you don’t understand.’ It is true that in the past every time I have asked, ‘What does Gresham’s Law mean?’ my husband has said, ‘Ah, you don’t understand.’ That is surely what I had admitted by asking the question in the first place. I knew Gresham’s Law said: ‘Bad money drives out good.’ But what that meant or how it could happen were blanks to me. I need only have looked

Jeremy Clarke

Caught out | 18 September 2004

The cognoscenti will tell you that the best time to visit the south Devon coast is the autumn. The vulgar summer hordes have departed, the weather in September is generally reliable and accommodation is cheaper. Unfortunately for them, word has got out. The lanes round here were more congested with traffic last week than in July and August, and in town the pavements were packed with cognoscenti looking askance at one another. Mirroring this trend were this year’s bookings for the holiday let attached to our house. For three consecutive weeks in July, the flat was vacant, yet from now till the middle of November it’s fully booked. I’m not

Mary Killen

Your Problems Solved | 18 September 2004

Dear Mary… Q. Interrogatives like ‘Are you seeing anyone?’ are gauche and unhelpful. Likewise ‘What does your partner do?’ or, to a third party, ‘Is your friend attached?’ When, increasingly, the lack of a ring signifies nothing, even among the more mature, perhaps, Mary, you might offer a discreet means of establishing a person’s status. I.S.W., Inverclyde A. You can trick people into revealing their romantic status by asking if they play tennis or bridge. If they reply in the affirmative, say ‘Oh great — do you have a partner who plays too?’ If they say no, say, ‘Oh, what a shame. You don’t have a partner, as they say,