Society

Saturday

Michael Hanlon

Bark, don’t bite

Modern life is full of terror. We quake at global warming, Arab terrorists, gene-tinkered foods and rogue vaccines. New plagues from the East, our mobile phones and our railways all have the ability to induce panic. These are all new fears of new things. And all, to a greater or lesser extent, are irrational. But there is another, and I would argue even greater and more insidious, fear that has crept up on us in the past 20 years or so. The object of this fear is not new; but the fear itself is. And it is making life for a significant number of us quite miserable. What is it

Theodore Dalrymple

Sick, thick and dangerous

As a conservative, I am against all unnecessary change, of course, but I welcome innovation that improves the quality of life. Thus I rejoice to learn that certain doctors in my neck of the woods are now conducting clinics for difficult and challenging (i.e., violent and dangerous) patients in local police stations. This will improve the quality of clinical care no end. Naturally, the principal beneficiaries of this innovation will be the doctors themselves. They will no longer sit in fear and trembling behind their desks as their young male patients, decked out in the uniform of modern British savagery, make their unreasonable demands, compliance with which they are prepared

Deal W-Hudson

The Gospel according to Braveheart

Washington, DC We were an odd sight to the young crowd in the pool hall late on a Sunday night. A couple of middle-aged family guys don’t exactly blend in, at least not in Adams Morgan, a hip young neighbourhood in Washington, DC – especially when one of them is Mel Gibson. It was the night before the screening of Gibson’s controversial film about the Passion of Christ. The man better known as Mad Max, or William Wallace, was relaxing in the pool hall after his long flight from Los Angeles. There was little relaxing elsewhere in the room, however. Women hoping for an autograph, a game of darts or

Friday

Peter Jones

Ancient and Modern – 22 August 2003

Schools minister David Miliband, condemned to a life of perpetual enthusiasm for New Labour policies as he attempts to climb the greasy pole, has drawn an analogy between students getting As at A-level and Paula Radcliffe beating a world record; while the gay cleric Canon John, recently rejected as Bishop of Reading, finds a ‘true analogy’ between homosexual use of the body parts in love-making with unconventional methods of painting a picture (e.g. with the feet). Both had better read Aristotle on the subject before they get carried away. Aristotle sees analogy as a sort of paradigm. These he divides into three groups: historical paradigm (‘do not let the Persian

Saturday

Mary Killen

Your Problems Solved | 16 August 2003

Dear Mary… Q. What should you answer when a lady whom you have not seen for 30 years greets you with the question, ‘You do not remember who I am, do you?’ when you don’t?P.S., Cornwall A. You should not worry. Such a lapse in memory is not the offence it was in the days when circles of friends and acquaintances were more manageably sized. Thirty years ago it would indeed have been hurtful not to remember someone who remembered you – particularly if that person had conceived a romantic longing for you and spent hundreds if not thousands of waking hours daydreaming about the possibility of your union. To

The Spectator

Portrait of the Week – 16 August 2003

Lord Hutton began his inquiry into the events leading to the death of Dr David Kelly, the expert on Iraqi weapons of mass destruction. Mr Andrew Gilligan, who had used Dr Kelly as his source for a report on the BBC about the ‘sexing up’ of the government’s September dossier on Iraq, made available notes made after meeting him; part said, ‘most people in intel werent happy with it because it didn’t reflect the considere view they were putting forward Campbell real info but unr. incl against ur wishes’. Miss Susan Watts, the science editor of BBC’s Newsnight, said her shorthand notes of Dr Kelly’s remarks about the claim that

Joan Collins

Diary – 16 August 2003

I was sad to hear about the death of Bob Hope, although hitting 100 is a fabulous record – almost like batting 1,000. I worked with Bob several times on his television variety shows and once in a movie, Road to Hong Kong. In the four previous Road films with Bing Crosby, Dorothy Lamour had played the female lead but by Hong Kong she was deemed by the Hollywood hierarchy to be too old, so I was cast to play Bing’s love interest at almost 40 years his junior. Bing was taciturn and grumpy through most of the movie in stark comparison with Bob, who was a bundle of laughs

Dot Wordsworth

Mind Your Language | 16 August 2003

It is by no means clear to me which words are acceptable in what social circumstances. I mean words from bloody southward. It was, 20 years ago, the case that in the grown-up surroundings of The Spectator it was all right to use for good reason strong language that the BBC could not abide. Now, on the stroke of 9 p.m., television makes fuck the most common of lexical choices. My husband doesn’t give a damn, but is shocked on my behalf. It doesn’t have to be 9 p.m. Shortly after 10 the other morning a rather sincere young person on Woman’s Hour was advocating our women’s standing up to

Taki

Family Courage

Gstaad I remember it as if it were yesterday. Rodney Solomon, a friend no longer with us, came into the Clermont club all huffy and puffy and dressed in a morning coat, refused an invitation to lunch, and announced that he was off early to the wedding of ‘my great friend Sally Curzon to Piers Courage’. The Clermont back then, it was 1966, belonged to John Aspinall, who was known for his friendly abuse of all and sundry. ‘Go on with your social climbing, Rodney, and tell that racing driver that real men don’t race but gamble…’ or words to that effect. I did not join in. In fact I

Jeremy Clarke

Fair play

I was running the Whack-the-Malteaser stall yet again this year. My sister put me on it the first year I helped out at the ‘fun day’ she organises every summer at the day centre for people with learning difficulties, and I’ve been running it every year since. This year I asked if I could go on the lucky dip instead, but she said no. Her clients don’t like change, she said. Because they are used to seeing me on the Whack-the-Malteaser stall, they expect to see me on it again this year. This is true, I suppose. People with learning difficulties are remarkably conservative. In fact, one could almost say

Stephen Glover

Why some newspapers will always demonise Andrew Gilligan

What is the view of the Andrew Gilligan affair at the Frog and Firkin? It is some time since I have been down to the Frog, but I feel I know its ways so well that I can be pretty sure what they are thinking. Most of its denizens are stuck somewhere between boredom and bewilderment. They feel as though they have been asked to take a paper in astrophysics with half an hour’s preparation on the subject and the aid of a blunt pencil. Of course, there will be some who believe they understand the whole thing perfectly. The landlord, who happens to be a Labour councillor, is certain

The Spectator

Bring back failure

It has become customary to preface any comment on the government’s policy on school examinations with a glowing tribute to schoolchildren who have worked hard for their grades. The school standards minister David Miliband goes so far as to cite the hard work of school pupils as an excuse for avoiding debate on the issue of ‘grade inflation’ altogether. Nobody complained when Paula Radcliffe broke the record for the London marathon, he argued the other day; therefore, nobody should dare to insult schoolchildren by questioning the integrity of A-level examinations, the results of which are announced this week, and of GCSEs, whose results are announced next week. There is an

Christopher Howse

A reasonable assumption

Anglicans in the United States believe it is a good idea for bishops to express their homosexual preferences genitally with long-stay companions. Some people will believe anything. Others find it hard to believe in the event commemorated each 15 August, the Assumption into Heaven of the Virgin Mary. I can’t myself see it is any harder to believe than the substantial presence of Jesus Christ, body, blood, soul and divinity, in the Eucharist. But I think I know the reason people find the Assumption a credal crux. It is because they suppose the dogma was invented on 1 November 1950, when Good Pope Pius XII declared that ‘the ever Virgin

Mary Kenny

Sex and the City means family values

The sexually explicit scenes in Sex and the City – now into its last series on Channel 4 – make me feel like Maurice Chevalier: I’m so glad that I’m not young any more. It is not that I feel, as my husband Richard West does, that it is all quite ‘filthy’ and ‘disgusting’ (he recalls with fondness the Old Aussie saying ‘There’s nothing worse than toilet talk from sheilas’): goodness me, I’m no prude. It is just that some of the sexual gymnastics, particularly as demonstrated by Samantha and the young men she picks up, seem somehow both humiliating and competitive. I mean, you look at Olympic swimming and

Mark Steyn

Man of the people

New Hampshire I haven’t really followed California gubernatorial elections since 1859, when Milton S. Latham ran as a pro-slavery Democrat. He was a grandson of my town’s first postmaster, and in this corner of New Hampshire we take a proprietorial interest in his adventures as he pressed west. Californians, as far as I can tell, take zero interest in him, perhaps because he proved to be their shortest-serving governor. Though he was thought to favour making California a slave state, in his inaugural address he was more circumspect about his plans: ‘Entering upon the duties of Chief Magistrate of our young State, it is expected of me, in accordance with

Andrew Gimson

Charming wit or oily Welshman?

This name is seldom, if ever, on the lips of the man in the saloon bar. But mention Sir Hayden Phillips to men of affairs, men of a certain consequence in our public life, men who are members of his club, Brooks’s, and you will find that they laugh, or smile at least, and say what an amusing fellow he is, besides being a brilliant operator. There is something about the mere thought of Sir Hayden that cheers people up. But should you ask, with a journalist’s impertinence, for some example of Sir Hayden’s wit, or some fuller idea of the man’s charm, your distinguished informant will first reassure himself

Philip Hensher

Give me a break

It started with some junk mail. I threw it out: I gave no consideration to the fact that it was addressed to a Miss Phyllis Henshaw. I put it down to some glitch in the address-sharing industry. But then the telephone calls started. The first one was from a business I’d always been rather unhealthily intrigued by: the photographic makeover studio. ‘Could I speak to Miss Phyllis Henshaw, please?’ the voice said. ‘I think you’ve made a mistake,’ I said. ‘This is Philip Hensher. There isn’t a Phyllis Henshaw.’ ‘Ah,’ she said, before starting on her scripted spiel. ‘I don’t think you understand,’ I said, in the manner of the

David Lovibond

Weep for Wales

I remember Wales: the early start from a sleeping Liverpool, the changes of trains and freezing waiting-rooms at polysyllabic stations, the endless trek across the permanent Sunday that was Anglesey in the 1950s. None of this was supposed to be fun. There were family connections stretching back over 100 years to a fiercely biblical great-grandfather, who had walked from Somerset to Amlwch for a job on the new railway. The austerity of the grey, disapproving little town must have suited; he married a Welsh monoglot, ‘went chapel’, and put down a taproot. It wasn’t until my father escaped into schoolmastering and England that a chink of light was let in.