Society

Thursday

David Shipley

Could ethnic minority criminals soon find it easier to avoid jail?

Robert Jenrick, the shadow justice secretary, has accused his Labour counterpart Shabana Mahmood of not believing in ‘equality under the law’ and ‘enshrining’ a ‘double standard’ over who is, and isn’t, sent to prison. The accusations against Mahmood – and the Labour government – came after new guidelines from the Sentencing Council were published, which appear to make prison less likely for ‘ethnic’, ‘cultural’ and ‘faith’ minorities who are convicted of crimes. This shake-up appears driven by a belief that the justice system is biased against minorities The Sentencing Council’s updated rules state that, for a number of groups, the assumption should be in favour of a pre-sentence report (PSR).

Zoe Strimpel

The Gen-Z fliers obsessed with maximising their air miles

Oscar, 26, joins me on Google Meet from Buenos Aires, having arrived earlier that day from New York – by way of a few hours in Mexico City and Panama. Just five days ago, he was in London. ‘New York was just going to be a weekend trip for a conference, but then I thought while I’m in America, I might as well head south and here I am.’ It’s a far cry from Wales, where his family lives. Yet this itinerary is barely a ripple in Oscar’s relentless travel schedule. His nonstop approach to flying places him firmly within a new tribe of Gen-Z frequent fliers – mostly men

Michael Simmons Michael Simmons

How the SNP wasted £110 million on PR and spin

No country in the UK receives more public money per head than Scotland. An extra £2,200 is spent on every person living there than in England – and £1,900 more than the UK average. Yet public services north of the border are falling apart. Take education. Scotland spends more per pupil than anywhere else – £1,848 per head compared with £1,543 in England. Yet standards have plummeted while those in England have improved. The latest Pisa rankings show Scottish pupils to be a year behind their English counterparts, despite a testing bias in favour of Scottish children. When it comes to economic affairs, some £2,228 per head is spent on

The Spectator

Letters: Leave our soldiers alone

Military farce Sir: Your leading article (‘The age of realism’, 1 March) argues that the government must invest in the UK’s ‘thinned-out infantry ranks’. This is certainly true, but it does pass over, in my view, the more fundamental issue of the broken recruitment system. My own application to join the Royal Air Force was rejected on the basis that my mother is Polish. Given that Poland is an ally, this seems a curious justification for disqualification. I was born and educated in London, my mother having moved to the UK with my English father 30 years ago. Clearly I am not a security threat, but because ‘computer says no’,

Martin Vander Weyer Martin Vander Weyer

Do not be hypnotised by Trump’s America

I’ve been judging a beauty parade, but I hasten to add that no bikinis were involved. Four leading investment firms were competing for the mandate to manage a charitable endowment – and offering insights into the way professional stock-pickers see the world. First, despite (or if you’re a disciple, because of) the madness of Donald Trump, any portfolio designed for even a moderate-risk UK investor will be heavily weighted towards US tech and consumer stocks. On the other hand, none of the pitches said anything about China or other previously fashionable emerging markets. And their lack of enthusiasm for pure UK equities (as opposed to London-listed multinationals) was impossible to

Flora Watkins

Why is the NHS pushing pregnant women towards sterilisation?

It was a routine antenatal appointment. I’d done it twice before and knew the format. The obstetrician runs through the risks of an elective caesarean (ELCS). We agree a date, I sign the forms, then make a plea for adequate pain relief after the surgery, which I know will be ignored. So I was blindsided by her opening gambit. ‘Why don’t we tie your tubes when we’ve got the baby out?’ she said, or something similar – I don’t recall the exact words, but I do remember the heat in my chest, the confusion and fear. ‘What?’ ‘It’s your third child, isn’t it, so why don’t we tie your tubes

The Spectator

How many people live in leasehold properties?

Back to the palace Donald Trump was invited for what will be his second state visit to the UK. Who else has been on more than one? – Olav V of Norway was entertained twice, in October 1962 and again in April 1988, although never at Buckingham Palace. On the first visit he was received at Holyrood Palace and the second Windsor Castle. – Margrethe II also undertook two state visits, in April 1974 and again in February 2000, both times to Windsor Castle. – Monarchs have an advantage as they tend to hang around for longer. Trump will be the first president to enjoy a second. Curiously, South Korea

Sam Leith Sam Leith

The anti-genius of William McGonagall, history’s worst poet

‘Not marble nor the gilded monuments of princes,’ wrote Shakespeare, ‘shall outlive this powerful rhyme.’ To be a great poet, as the Stratford man knew, is to be immortal. But there’s another way to achieve immortality through verse – and that is the route taken by William McGonagall, the ‘worst poet in history’, who was born 200 years ago this month. His star, I’m pleased to say, shows no sign of fading. He has, as is only proper, an adjective. You can be Keatsian, Eliotian, Homeric. Or, like most of us when we sit down to write a poem, you can be McGonagallesque. His name is so much a byword

Lionel Shriver Lionel Shriver

I’m a culture war addict

Reading Melissa Lawford’s excellent analysis in the Sunday Telegraph, ‘Putin can’t afford peace – Russia’s economy is hooked on war’, I had a queasy sense of recognition. Lawford claims that Vladimir Putin has no real desire for a peace deal in Ukraine, because both his personal political power and his country’s militarised economy depend on the conflict. She quotes an IMF former chief economist as saying: ‘He’s enjoying the war. It’s awful. But he doesn’t want to end the war.’ Doing the podcast rounds in London during the past week, I’ve felt a sheepish kinship with Vladimir. Have I, too, been enjoying the war? The culture war, that is. If

Damian Thompson Damian Thompson

Jonathan Bowden: my eccentric school friend who became a far-right hero

When my old school, Presentation College, Reading, was demolished a decade ago, the Labour council desperately searched for famous old boys after whom they could name streets on the housing estate that replaced it. This was a challenge. According to the local newspaper, ‘names rejected include one in recognition of Mike Oldfield, the musician behind ground-breaking prog rock album Tubular Bells’ – rejected by Oldfield, I assume, since he hated the school. They settled on Bowden Row, ‘in honour of political philosopher and Presentation alumnus Jonathan Bowden’. I wonder if the residents of the handsome semi-detached houses know anything about Bowden. The council didn’t. He was a former cultural officer

Toby Young Toby Young

Are you offended by ‘hard-working families’?

Scarcely a day passes without a newspaper story about some absurd ‘language guide’ issued by a public body. This week the Daily Mail reported that Wokingham Borough Council had told its staff not to use the phrase ‘hard-working families’ in case it offended the unemployed. Other verboten words included ‘blacklist’ and ‘whitewash’, and staff were warned that ‘sustained eye contact could be considered aggressive’ in some cultures. I don’t think they meant supporters of Millwall football club, but you never know. Not to be outdone, Cardiff University has told its students to avoid using ‘British-English’ phrases such as ‘kill two birds with one stone’, ‘break a leg’ and ‘a piece

Justin Marozzi

Why possum beats cashmere

In 1990, an exotic Swiss-Canadian teenager of purportedly Habsburgian lineage descended on Cambridge in a cloud of cashmere. His wardrobe was unfeasibly organised, shelf after shelf of cashmere arrayed in all the hues of the rainbow. We regarded him as a thing of wonder. In those days most of us British undergraduates were deeply unsophisticated, many of us impoverished. We were just about graduating from high-street polyester to Scottish lambswool. Cashmere was unheard of. Life moves on, and who today hasn’t indulged in a spot of cashmere? My wife is addicted to the stuff – jumpers, cardigans, polo necks, gloves, scarves – good God, the scarves. These days cashmere is

Rory Sutherland Rory Sutherland

The case for a daily limit on social media posts

A few years ago, my old school magazine featured a pupil’s brief account of a geography field trip. Before the magazine was mailed out, someone had noticed a jokey reference to a minibus being driven erratically after the teacher had visited the local pub, and worried that this might be libellous. The school could have reprinted the magazine, or else thought ‘publish and be damned’. Alas they did neither: they stuck a white sticker over the offending paragraph in every copy. This led to the piece receiving perhaps 1,000 times more attention than it would otherwise have done, the attempt at censorship spotlighting a harmless joke that most people wouldn’t

Olivia Potts Olivia Potts

In defence of red velvet cake

I will admit to having been dismissive of red velvet cake in the past, considering it to be bland in flavour and garish in colour. It tended to come in cupcake form with towering hats of super-sweet buttercream, which made it unpleasant and difficult to eat. The cult love for red velvet, inspiring scented candles and lip balms all smelling of synthetic vanilla, always struck me as a bit naff – the preserve of teenage girls queueing outside Instagram-bait bakeries. Why would you plump for a red velvet cupcake when you could have coffee and walnut or a lemon syrup-soaked sponge or a nobbly carrot cake? Red velvet was a

Mary Killen

Dear Mary: How do I stop my husband falling asleep at the theatre?

Q. At the age of 50 my brother-in-law has discovered a talent for acting and singing. He has joined a local amateur dramatics society and often takes a leading role. This new dimension in his life has meant the world to him and his self-confidence has soared. Theatre is not our thing, but as my husband and I live in the same town we feel it incumbent to be loyal and attend at least one performance of a run. The small venue tends to become quite warm and stuffy and, with the best will in the world, my hard-working husband finds it difficult not to nod off, especially if he

Bruce Anderson

The seductions of Provence

Riches, ancient cities, great architecture, splendid landscape, agriculture to match, trade routes, romance. Records of human settlement stretching to the dawn of civilisation, recurrent conflicts and invasions, dynastic struggles which lasted for centuries, wars of religion followed later by revolutionary conflicts. We are contemplating Provence, a region with a glorious history but which has often produced more history than it could consume. That gives rise to an ironic parallel. In the UK, we too have a Province, pronounced Prov’nce. It too has exported a lot of history, for which it has received little recognition. Almost a third of the signatories of the US Declaration of Independence had Ulster Protestant roots.

Dot Wordsworth

The strange rise of ‘watch on’

‘Here’s a piece of filth for you,’ said my husband encouragingly. He was ‘helping’ me, as a cat might help wind wool. He’d come across a letter to the Guardian from 2015, in which Pedr James, who had directed a television dramatisation of Martin Chuzzlewit, drew attention to the name in the book for the proprietor of a ‘boarding house for young gentlemen’, Mrs Todgers. ‘Given her occupation, Todgers suggests to me that Dickens was well aware of the slang meaning which remains with us even today.’ This, the director suggested, exemplified double-entendres in the novel.     That reading seems to me misconceived. Dickens did not need concealed sexual references

Lloyd Evans Lloyd Evans

My brush with a rabid monkey

India A crowded bus station. A lady monkey with a baby clinging to its neck sidled past me, eyeing the banana I was eating. I barely noticed them. A moment later, claws dug into my back. A skeletal hand darted forward to grab my banana. The baby monkey was on my shoulder. I leapt up and shrugged vigorously but it climbed on to my head, so I twisted sharply this way and that to unseat the little nuisance. I felt a painful scratch on my neck. The furry bundle leapt off me and scampered away. I’d been bitten. A few bored locals gathered around to see if the kerfuffle was worth

Melissa Kite

I’m the one who needs a carer now

My father was discharged from hospital with a plastic bag containing 13 boxes of pills and a vague promise that a nurse would turn up at his house to help him. ‘He’ll have a package of care put in place,’ yawned a hospital functionary, who didn’t sound at all interested. But after he got home, the only package was the big bag of pills that sat on the kitchen table and a sheet with thousands of words in very small print detailing the complicated doses, which my father, who can’t see properly, was attempting to read with a magnifying glass when I arrived from Ireland. I had no more luck