It’s getting lonely over here on the right

In New York last week I was gobsmacked to discover I’d won the Bastiat Prize for Online Journalism. So gobsmacked that I hadn’t thought to prepare a magnanimous, funny victor’s speech, only a halting, rueful runner’s-up one.

In New York last week I was gobsmacked to discover I’d won the Bastiat Prize for Online Journalism. So gobsmacked that I hadn’t thought to prepare a magnanimous, funny victor’s speech, only a halting, rueful runner’s-up one.

No one ever gives me prizes. And it’s not purely because I’m utterly rubbish and can’t write for toffee. It’s also that I happen to live in a culture which would prefer not to reward writers of my political outlook — because, obviously, people like me are au fond baby-eating Nazis whose perfect world would look like a giant oil slick dotted with drowning polar bears and towering golden skyscrapers full of bankers in pashmina suits taking shots at humble, honest working folk with diamond-encrusted Purdeys.