Commentariat

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Do lorry drivers habitually murder prostitutes? My guess is that only a very
small minority of them do, although I have no statistics to support such an
assumption. My colleague Jeremy Clarkson recently made a joke about lorry
drivers murdering prostitutes on an edition of his BBC show Top Gear and
once again all hell has been let loose.

It’s political correctness gone mad. Every year at about this time we
celebrate the defeat of papist terrorism with the ritual maiming of young
people with fireworks.

It’s been a damned good week for God, all things considered. Not only have
those scientists been trying to find His very own particle in a large
bicycle inner tube near Geneva, but the traditional view of Him forming the
Earth in a week, resting only to take out a cable subscription to Setanta on
the last day, has received a sort of official endorsement from the most
unlikely of places – the Royal Society. Normally when you mention God to
scientists they blush and start surreptitiously sniggering. Not any more. At
last, He has tenure.

I assume there must be someone in the country who thinks that Gordon Brown
should remain prime minister, other than Gordon Brown. Our mental hospitals
are full of troubled, damaged and deranged individuals, so he might have
some support there. And then there’s David Cameron and the staff of
Conservative Central Office. Two very similar constituencies, to my mind.
But constituencies that are, in electoral terms, vanishingly small. With
each day that passes, someone previously considered to be a loyal ally
sticks the boot in and suggests that our prime minister is weak or
vacillating or incompetent or doolally or all of these things. Then another
opinion poll surfaces which shows that Brown is considered by the public to
be less attractive and effective as a leader of our country than would be a
Findus boil-in-the-bag cod in prawn-flavour sauce.

What do you suppose causes the greater amount of global warming: genetically
modified crops or his royal highness, Prince Charles?

Like many of you, I suspect, I have been wondering who Jesus Christ would have
liked least, Africans or homosexuals. Most of the available evidence
suggests He would have found it a pretty close call, all things considered.
By “available evidence”, I mean the most eminently flexible of texts, the
Bible.

Here’s a tip. If you’re thinking of faking your own death so you can trouser
the life insurance payment and flee to somewhere more agreeable, don’t
subsequently pose for a photograph grinning like a jackass. It’s what we
call a hostage to fortune.

A victory against those damnable forces of political correctness – an
employment tribunal decided last week that Lillian Ladele, a marriage
registrar, should not be forced to officiate at gay civil partnerships,
despite the fact that it was precisely her job to do so.

It is good to see a bit of passion back in British politics. Too often, these
days, our elected representatives come across as a collection of devious,
underachieving middle managers, unfettered by principle and unmoved by the
issues on which they vote. So it was heartening to see the real fervour and
commitment in last Thursday’s debate, when our MPs courageously voted to
give themselves lots more money and keep their extremely generous expense
allowances. That took some guts.

Have you noticed how on children’s television the presenters never actually
come into contact with the kids? They beam at them like half-wits, while
showing them how to build simple wind farms or recycling plants or mosques
out of crepe paper and organic yoghurt pots – but they never touch them. I
suppose this is because parents across the country might take them for wrong
’uns and immediately phone Esther Rantzen’s hugely successful ChildLine.
Apparently there are paedophiles lurking behind every privet hedge. It thus
follows that anyone who wants to work in children’s TV must be a bit
suspect, not quite right. Ditto Scout leaders, all youth workers, teachers,
parents and so on. There’s a fine study out last week from the think tank
Civitas, written by the reformed commie Frank Furedi, called Licensed to
Hug, which makes the excellent point that this overprotectiveness is
“poisoning” the relationship between adults and children. Furedi says that
11.3m people in this country will need to be vetted by the Criminal Records
Bureau if they intend to work with children – a staggering invasion of
privacy and personal liberty. However, this bureaucratic mechanism doesn’t
work because it removes the crucial element of personal judgment. If someone
turns up for a job working with children, he will be taken on so long as he
has the requisite piece of paper from the CRB – even if he is wearing a
stained raincoat, concealing a bag of lemon bonbons in his right hand and
sweating slightly. Voluntary groups say many fewer people wish to involve
themselves in children’s activities as a result.

Slainte, Ireland – the only country in the European Union which had enough
moral spine and commitment to democracy to allow its people a vote on the
Lisbon treaty. And of course its people voted “no” – as the people of Europe
inevitably do when given the chance. Slainte once again, then.

I’m not sure how I’d feel if I were a black man watching Barack Obama win the
Democratic presidential nomination and reading the eulogies pouring in from
whitey. I have the suspicion that I would take myself off to the bathroom
sharpish. Obama’s victory has been cheered much as one might cheer a
labrador that can balance rich tea biscuits on its nose – and with that
slightly sickly tone you get from news reports of the Paralympic Games. Oh, didn’t
he do well! And he’s, you know, black! Bless him!

In 2000 little Victoria Climbié, eight years old, was murdered by her
guardians, having endured months of appalling abuse and cruelty. You may
remember the harrowing court case, Lord Laming’s subsequent inquiry, the
trenchant criticisms of Haringey social services for their “blinding
incompetence”. Victoria came from the Ivory Coast and arrived here in the
custody of her “great-aunt”.

You would think that by now Allah’s message might be getting through. Time
after time Muslim fanatics attempt to wreak devastation in Britain – and
succeed only in blowing themselves up, or setting themselves on fire, or
their explosives refuse to do the decent thing and explode – while we
infidel cockroaches look on in bemusement, quite unharmed.

THERE was a caller to David Mellor’s Radio 5 phone-in show a few years ago who
chatted about one of the weekend’s games and then said, apropos of nothing:
“By the way, David - you’re a ****.” He was quickly taken off the air and
the BBC issued a magnificent apology, the first words of which I still
remember clearly to this day: “We are very sorry that your enjoyment of the
programme was spoiled . . .”

A mere 10 months have gone by since last summer’s by-elections. These contests marked the high point of Mr Gordon Brown’s premiership. Since then, the precious fluid has been draining away, so that now there is hardly anything left in the tank. I was one of only two practitioners of this strange trade to pick up the signs. The other was, I think, Lord Rees-Mogg in The Times. There may have been others. If so, I apologise.

What shall we do with our young women, do you suppose? Two surveys out last
week suggest they are increasingly prone to acts of criminal violence and,
worse, have become among fattest girls in Europe. This follows earlier
surveys which indicated that they are also the most stupid, ill-mannered,
flatulent, drug-addicted and sexually incontinent girls in Europe. Perhaps
as a consequence of this, they are the girls with whom Europe’s men would
least like to have sexual intercourse. Also perhaps as a consequence, the
girls with whom most of Europe’s men have already enjoyed sexual congress.
British girls are a cinch, although not, it would seem, a very desirable
cinch.

I used to really like the idea of being an old lady. I’d daydream sometimes
about which version of my OAP self I’d like best. Version A was really fat
(farewell, dieting), unwaxed and stubby-nailed (farewell, tyranny of
grooming), quite drunk (goodbye, units), living on a diet of cakes (mm,
carbohydrates) and gin, happy as a clam. Version B was whip-thin, in Chanel,
being insufferably rude and travelling a lot – less blissfully slothful, but
perhaps more interesting. I’d have that mad violet hair you used to see in
the 1970s. It would be great.

The decision to borrow a £2.7 billion loan, at a time when we are grotesquely over-borrowed, is the final sign not merely that Gordon Brown has no idea about sound economics, but that he is unfit to see the country through hard times, says Simon Heffer.

I have often – OK, occasionally – wondered why film is the only art form to have “buffs”. You never hear of theatre or dance or world music buffs. Television has its couch potatoes, but never anything as intellectually enticing as a buff. Yet anyone who visits their multiplex a couple of times a month expects to be referred to as a film buff.

Spare us any more politicians’ rhapsodies about pop music. Only yesterday, The Independent remarked on the number of times a party leader has claimed to be a fan of some anarchic rock band, only to find themselves rejected by the musicians in question. Most recent was David Cameron, whose idiotic identification with “Eton Rifles” was laughed at by Paul Weller of The Jam. Now, in an unusual twist, a pop star tells us of a politician’s endorsement. Robin Gibb of the Bee Gees has assured the press Gordon Brown claims their music is “absolutely timeless” and he listens to it “every day”. Can it be that the PM says that to every beat combo he meets? Or is it that the Gibbs brothers’ song titles resonate with his mood: “Tragedy,” “Stayin’ Alive” and (thinking of Cameron in the run-up to the Crewe and Nantwich by-election) “You Win Again”?

I have often – OK, occasionally – wondered why film is the only art form to have “buffs”. You never hear of theatre or dance or world music buffs. Television has its couch potatoes, but never anything as intellectually enticing as a buff. Yet anyone who visits their multiplex a couple of times a month expects to be referred to as a film buff.

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