This mugger-hugger knows the truth, just like the ‘all mouth and no truncheon’ phoney
I agree completely with that awful old wet liberal Ken Clarke. Talking about politicians and crime, he says ‘the failure of the past has been to use tough rhetoric and to avoid taking tough decisions that might prove unpopular’.
Quite. I would much rather have an honest, straightforward mugger-hugger like Ken in charge, weeping and snuffling about rehabilitation and similar rubbish, than a false friend of the people like that phoney hard man and closet liberal Michael Howard, all mouth and no truncheon.
That way, we all know from the start that we can expect no help from the State against the misery of modern Britain, and that – if we want such help – we will have to build a new political party which understands the problem and wants to put it right. This remains the most urgent task in this country.
What unites Michael Howard and Ken Clarke (and the Labour Party, and the Liberals) is that they wilfully don’t have a clue about crime or disorder. They wilfully know nothing about policing. They wilfully don’t understand what happens in prisons. They know that the truth is very Right-wing indeed, so they hide from it.
Deliberate ignorance is the essential qualification for all politicians, academics and ‘home affairs correspondents’, and civil servants in the Ministry of Injustice which Mr Clarke now heads. All the information is readily available to anyone who wants it. But it leads to conclusions which our elite can’t bear, mainly the need to rough up, punish and frighten the wicked. So they pretend it doesn’t exist.
You can tell how ill-informed politicians and media types are by a series of easy tests. Here are some. Do they refer to ‘bobbies on the beat’? This is a clear sign of a dunce on the subject. The modern generation of uniformed social workers, loaded down with stab-vests, retract able batons, handcuffs, frying pans, helmet videos, SatNavs, pepper sprays, homophobia detection devices and sociology books, cannot possibly be called ‘bobbies’ by anyone who understands the English language.
As for ‘the beat’, don’t these people know that there has been no such thing for 40 years?
The regular foot patrolling of the streets of this country by uniformed const ables was ordered to cease by the Home Office Police Advisory Board on December 7, 1966. Since then, foot patrols have only been sent out as an occasional special concession, or in some lucky city centres – when the police are not too busy driving their cars or filling in forms.
The next sign of criminological ineptitude is the wearisome claim that prison doesn’t work. The idea is spread that because so many ex-prisoners reoffend, this means jail isn’t a deterrent. But this leaves out the truth, which is that it is far harder to get into prison in modern Britain than it is to get into university. You have to try and try, and will be fobbed off for years with meaningless ‘cautions’, fines you don’t have to pay and ‘community service’ you can laugh at. Only hardened criminals (plus middle-class council tax rebels and people who defend their homes) ever actually get locked up.
No wonder they reoffend. If a second offence got law-breakers confined in austere gaols with exhausting hard labour, hard beds and sparse, tasteless food, without in-cell TVs or pool tables or phones (or drugs), and run by grim-jawed warders who took no nonsense, the reoffending rate would drop to near-zero in a week. What’s more, thousands of potential criminals would be scared into behaving themselves. That’s all the ‘rehabilitation’ this country needs, and the only kind that works.
I don’t suppose Sir Sidney Camm, Sir Stanley Hooker or Ralph Hooper ever regarded themselves as artists. But this trio, who designed the wonderful plane which became famous as the Harrier (and in which I once flew for a glorious, if queasy, 45 minutes), created a thing of great beauty.
Aeroplanes have to be beautiful or they wouldn’t fly, but I’ll leave it to you to work out why that might be. I would be interested to know how the self-styled ‘artist’ Fiona Banner can claim any real credit for the retired Sea Harrier hung by its tail from the ceiling of what I think in future must be called the Tat Gallery in London. Did she hoist it up there herself? Could she, sat alone in a room with a pencil and a sheet of paper, make a decent drawing of a Boeing 747 from memory? Yet this woman, hitherto famous for displaying a long-written description of a pornographic film on a wall, and calling that ‘art’, now receives sighs of praise from our cultural elite.
Let Me Explain...
PH. Once again a bitter, sarcastic parody of what I actually say. Where do I recommend that we 'hate ourselves' or long for our empire (that is actually what many sentimentalists and 'Finest Hour' adherents do? I do not. I know only too well that the empire is gone for good). One thing we might not do, if we faced the truth, is try to continue to behave as if we were a great power, when we are not, or to have a vast and bloated welfare state we can't afford, or to insist, year by year, on maintaining a standard of living we cannot afford, as if we still were what we long ago ceased to be. We might also recognise the urgent need to salvage our national independence, which, in a fog of Churchillian fake grandeur, we have given away to the EU.
30 June 2010 4:17 PM
The Last of the Wine
29 June 2010 3:10 AM
The History Boys
28 June 2010 3:27 PM
Is Football A Pagan Cult?
Those of us who watch with puzzlement and even amusement as the nation convulses itself over the World Cup should take this thing more seriously than we do.
Clearly football satisfies some deep human need.
Otherwise why do all these flags fly from vans and hang from windowsills, why do millions of people sit in front of their TV sets on a blazing summer afternoon watching a not-specially-exciting game, involving 22 men chasing a bladder around a field, thousands of miles away?
Why do they yell and swear and gasp as goals are scored or not scored, even when they have not been drinking too much?
It is a need I do not happen to share. But why is that? Do I lack something important that they have? Why don't I care?
When I was ten years old I was deeply engaged by the fortunes of Hampshire in the County Cricket Championship, scanning the 'Late News' in the Portsmouth evening paper for the most recent score - though I think in those days it was quite unusual for boys of the lower upper middle class (tiny snobs, ever concerned about our marginal position in the class system) to support a football team.
Now, this cricket enthusiasm is a mystery to me, a mystery whose code I can no longer break, like Leo Colston's inability to understand large parts of his schoolboy diary, found years later in a chilly attic, in that fine and haunting novel by L.P.Hartley, 'The Go-Between'.
I care about quite a few things, rather a lot, as readers of this site will know. Is it just an individual thing that I find the whole thing laughable, and actually quite want the English football team to lose, if only to bring home to these fanatics that this country is in fact in decline, and that its decay cannot be stopped by winning a football game - and that our inability to win tournaments in games we invented is a sign of that decline?
I am almost permanently furious that they can rush on to the streets to show 'patriotism' over a football game, but appear unmoved by the theft of our national independence, the rape of our countryside, the destruction of our culture and all the many real and lasting ways in which this country daily loses the Real World Cup of Nationhood.
Is it because I am one of the last living survivors of the public school era of compulsory sport and of semi-compulsory enthusiasm for it ('Stop slacking, get out there on the touchline and support your house, Hitchens!')
Perhaps it is, but if so, am I really worse than they are. I have marched in huge demonstrations and dissolved myself in crowds, and increasingly I regret having done so. I now prefer not to surrender to mass feelings, which are almost always wrong. More importantly, why do they care?
I do think a lot of people get pleasure from feeling they belong to something bigger than themselves. I also think there is a special satisfaction to be got from rituals, from unified chanting, and from the emotions of crowds.
The huge football stadiums of the 21st century are the pagan temples of today, in which we can take part in ceremonies of hero-worship, sing what pass for hymns, feel as one with our fellow-creatures and, if the thing is properly conducted, walk away afterwards with a feeling that life has been enhanced in some mysterious way.
People even wear special clothing for these occasions, the extraordinarily strange habit of dressing up in footballers' kit, with the name and number of a favourite player displayed on the torso.
I am told (but would like to know more) that the atmosphere and the pattern of major football matches is quite similar to those which would have been found at the great festivals of sacrifice which were held before enormous crowds in the temples of Ancient Greece and Rome.
If our civilisation were to be overcome by a volcanic disaster,as was Pompeii (which Heaven forfend), what would the archaeologists of 4010 make of football, if they had nothing to go on apart from the perfectly-preserved remains of the fans?
I think they would conclude that it had a religious purpose.
It is noticeable that the great growth of passion for football in this country has come at a time when the Christian religion's efforts to absorb and channel such forces to its own ends have pretty much run out of steam.
Before anyone points out that more people attend church each week than attend football matches in this country, I would retort that very few people watch church services on the TV.
And while there are major sporting occasions in the USA, where Christianity is still a major force, they are much more relaxed occasions, lacking the passionate and potentially violent character which lingers around British sporting venues.
26 June 2010 8:56 PM
These cuts are a con – we’ll soon be just like Greece (but without the lovely beaches)
This is Peter Hitchens' Mail on Sunday column
Anyone would think that the late General Pinochet, Chile’s ultra-conservative military dictator, had risen from his grave and was stalking Britain, slashing public spending with an axe and machine-gunning screaming public-service workers in football stadiums.
The exaggerated fuss over George Osborne’s Budget is crude spin.
It may convince the gullible sheep-brained people who appear to control the stock markets and bond markets of the world, and who make their livings by dashing hither and thither shoving prices up and down on a whim. But should it convince us?
There’s such a mismatch between the scale of the national profligacy and what the Government can actually do that it’s necessary for the Chancellor to pretend that he is being more brutal than he truly is.
Likewise the Labour Party, which would have done more or less the same had it been in office, has to join in the same pretence.
False declarations of resolve are met with false howls of outrage.
The supposed core of the Osborne effort is a series of 25 per cent cuts in spending in most departments.
These cuts have yet to be specified, and will actually need to be much higher than 25 per cent, probably nearer 33 per cent, because the sacred NHS, the largest employer in Europe and a sink of bureaucracy and inefficiency, is to be spared the slasher’s knife. And so is the equally sacred budget for ‘Foreign Aid’.
Quite why this suspect activity – which so seldom actually reaches the suffering – is so untouchable, I do not know.
Once you realise that a sizeable chunk of it will be spent on aborting Third World babies, you begin to wonder where the rest is going.
The trumpeted cuts are polit ically impossible.
The screeching lobbies that stand behind the public sector and the welfare state have automatic access to the BBC, where their advocates are treated with reverence.
They have a similar direct line to large chunks of the Liberal Democrat Party, and the cultural elite in general.
Maybe if this were 1920 rather than 2010, Mr Osborne might hope to do as he promises.
But – as Michael Portillo has repeatedly warned, and he was once in charge of controlling spending – real cuts are extremely difficult to achieve.
So what will happen?
My guess is that the country will continue living beyond its means as it has done since Harold Macmillan began debauching the national finances to win popularity 50 years ago.
And we will pay the price in inflation and in a devalued currency, slowly slipping from second to third-class status, so that at the end we really are pretty much like Greece, instead of just pretending to be, hopelessly in debt and nothing working properly.
But without the Acropolis or the nice beaches.
The wrong Huhne got the chop
Heaven knows we all stumble in our lives, and the hard promises of marriage are among the most difficult we ever make.
But why is it that when a man’s marriage comes up against his political career, we all seem to assume that it is the marriage that has to go?
When Chris Huhne’s infidelity was discovered, nobody was surprised when his instant response was to sack Mrs Huhne, so taking the heat off the Government and the weird coalition that sustains it.
I think this is the wrong way round.
Compared with his transient job in charge of carpeting the country with futile windmills, Mr Huhne’s marriage and family are of far more lasting importance.
Shouldn’t he at least have paused to see if he could save it? Shouldn’t his friends and colleagues have done likewise?
One of the reasons marriage is disappearing so fast in our society, and why so many children must now grow up without both their own natural parents, is that our culture thinks that a break-up is the best answer to a crisis.
Well, for me, the break-up of anybody’s marriage, anywhere, is infinitely more grievous than the break-up of a government.
Each of these small, deep tragedies diminishes us all and takes another brick out of the arch of civilisation.
Sacrificed to feeble leadership
The self-serving twaddle oozing from David Cameron on Afghanistan is actually shocking. He is not stupid.
He must know talk of ‘building up the Afghans’ own security’ is a bitter joke. All attempts to create serious Afghan armed forces have flopped.
Afghans all know we will leave soon, and those who support us will then be seen as traitors and have their heads sawn off.
As for his talk of a ‘military covenant’, the one our soldiers need is the only one they cannot get: an assurance they will only be asked to die or be maimed for good reason. There is no such good reason in Afghanistan. The Cabinet know this, but do nothing about it.
No more soldiers should be sent to die in a war already lost, a war Mr Cameron already knows to be lost.
We all pay a price for having weak, indecisive leaders. But none pays a price as high as the one our soldiers pay.
Our Government is not worthy of our Army.
Vince, trapped by the Eton tribe
How sorry I felt for Vince Cable as I sat a few feet from him on Question Time on Thursday night.
He seemed to be resorting to transcendental meditation to escape the horror of his position, defending a Government he never wanted to be in.
It’s not that he really disagrees with the Budget.
If he’d joined the coalition with Labour that he’d much have preferred, he’d have had to go through roughly the same performance.
It’s that he’s tribally much closer to Labour than to the Etonians, and feels as a football fan would if he were compelled to cheer for a team he’d hated since his youth.
That’s why the Tories put him, not one of their own, on TV to defend the Budget.
They wanted to make sure he was irreversibly committed.
They know that, at some point in the next four years, the Liberal Democrat Parliamentary Party will split, and they want to make it impossible for Vince to be one of the defectors. Then they can move on to the next stage – the creation of the Liberal Conservative Party which David Cameron dreams of.
Yet more alleged statues by the alleged sculptor Antony Gormley are cropping up all over the country. There’s one perched on a rooftop in Oxford, looking like a man contemplating suicide.
Now a team of them has been deployed in Edinburgh. Any day now I expect to find one of them standing next to me in the gents’. Couldn’t someone cut spending on this?