Wines to toast a warrior saint

Towards the chimes at midnight, a few of us left a — respectable — establishment near Leicester Square. Eight or nine youngsters were brawling vigorously, boots and fists. 999 was dialled, and the response was admirably fast. The cops would no doubt have recorded it as just another trivial incident in the life of a British inner city. But how squalid.

That day, there was a story about undergraduettes moonlighting as lap-dancers or strippers, or worse. We have suffered a loss of civilisation since Newman: most of the ‘universities’ to which those girls were accredited should never have received that status. Until the day before yesterday, they would have been called the Haltemprice Mechanics’ Institute or somesuch, and done useful work. Today, the most that can be hoped for is that they do not offer degrees in pimping or whoring yet.

We had discussed Islam, expressing little sympathy. Suddenly, that changed. The attitudes of the repressive Muslim father seemed less reprehensible: his desire to protect girlhood more comprehensible.