Society

Saturday

Deborah Devonshire

Diary – 22 September 2007

In the wake of my niece by marriage, Charlotte Mosley, queen of editors, I have done a few book signings lately in aid of The Mitfords: Letters Between Six Sisters. The reason for joining her is because I am a contributor to the book and am still alive, but alas my sisters are not. Charlotte is the only person who could have made this book. She has been part of the family since 1975, when she married Diana’s son Alexander, and has an enviable record as an editor with the best, shortest, sharpest, most accurate footnotes in the business. Who else would have waded through 12,000 letters to choose 600

Charles Moore Charles Moore

The Spectator’s notes | 22 September 2007

For ten years, it has been said that Gordon Brown gave independence to the Bank of England. He never did, and this week dramatically reminds us of that fact. What he did was to give the Monetary Policy Committee of the Bank the freedom to set interest rates. What he also did, however — and this nearly caused the then Governor, Eddie George, to resign — was to take away from the Bank its regulatory function. Since 1997, matters have been run by the ‘tripartite’ arrangement in which the Financial Services Authority makes the rules, the Bank handles the money and the government sticks its oar in. Some of the

The Spectator

Letters to the Editor | 22 September 2007

No call for a referendum Sir: Your leading article overstates the case for a referendum in the UK (15 September). It would be interesting to know how many newspapers thought there should be a referendum on the decision to go to war with Iraq, or other far-reaching decisions that Parliament takes, such as on counter-terrorism or euthanasia. We live in a parliamentary democracy where our legislature is entrusted to take decisions on behalf of the people. Eurosceptics routinely bemoan the loss of parliamentary sovereignty, but the calls for a referendum would ironically neuter Parliament at the time when it should be centre stage. Furthermore, hysterical complaints about the submergence of

Jeremy Clarke

Fighting talk | 22 September 2007

The gym attendant is giving me private boxing lessons for ten quid an hour. He used to box for the army. He candidly admits to having perfected one combination only during his short career: a left to the ribs followed by a right cross to the head. It was his secret weapon. It either worked or it didn’t, he says. His squashed hooter testifies to the occasions when it didn’t. If he sees me in his gym, he comes out of his office and straps weights to my ankles. I feel like a fool trudging around the place like a deep-sea diver on the ocean floor. But he’s obdurate. If

Taki

In praise of Mussolini

One tends to do a lot of reading on board a boat while sailing far from the madding yobs. Mostly books, thank God, as newspapers are hard to find until they’re ready to wrap fish. The Spectator, of course, is sent to wherever I am by my nice personal assistant, who buys it first thing Thursday morning and has it delivered by special messenger to the nearest marina. When times are good it comes even faster, with sweet young London things doing the delivering. Last week I read David Gilmour’s review of The Force of Destiny, by Christopher Duggan, and a very interesting review it was of a book I

Toby Young Toby Young

Television and me: whatever it is, the answer’s yes

Being a journalist, sooner or later, you’ll get a call asking if you want to be in a reality show. One of the occupational hazards of being a journalist these days is that, sooner or later, you’ll get a call asking if you want to be in a reality show. The reason is simple: we’re just about the only people left in the country who are likely to say yes. It is not just that we’re complete publicity whores — we’re hardly alone in that respect — it is also that we have the perfect excuse: we can pretend we’re just doing it for ‘journalistic reasons’. I don’t think I’ve

Alex Massie Alex Massie

A September Surprise?

A snap election in Britain? Iain Dale sees the latest good poll for Gordon Brown and reports that the Tories think it might happen: I understand that CCHQ [Conservative Central office HQ] is on full election alert, with preparations for an announcement by Gordon Brown on Monday. Yes, you read that right. Monday.

The Spectator

Ian Gilmour RIP

Less than a year since the death of Frank Johnson, the Spectator has lost another of its family. Last night, the death of Ian Gilmour, who was our proprietor and editor from 1954 to 1959, was announced, and all at the magazine grieve for his passing and send our condolences to his family. In later life, Ian was best known as a staunch and eloquent critic of Thatcherism, whose book, Dancing with Dogma, impressed even those, such as myself, who disagreed with its central thesis. But he was also a crucial protagonist in the history of the Spectator and his carpet – worn down by the pacing of Alexander Chancellor

Interconnect

Sung Dynasty

Sung Dynasty My lover tells me that when autumn comes He will fashion me a boat of cherry blossom: There’s no way I’m getting in that. Sean O’Brien

Norman Bissett

Whitewater Rafting

Whitewater Rafting: a poem Whitewater Rafting Bone-domed, wet-suited, that New Zealand day, six of us in a dinghy diced with death. Twenty-five rapids made us hold our breath. The snowmelt river took our breath away. Eleven miles of turbulent, freezing foam, floodwaters from the glacial Southern Alps with granite canyon walls threatening thin scalps — our lives flashed by, and images of home. Paddles in hand, on rubber gunwales perched, we worked and worked, fighting against the tide, bouncing against the outcrops, three per side, avoiding cliffs, rocks, death, until we lurched beyond the final rapids, round a bend, into a quiet lagoon, and journey’s end. Norman Bissett

Kate Chisholm

Forgotten Genius

He died in 1955, aged 45, in the back of a New York taxi cab (we were not told how), wrote the script for The African Queen (going so far as to direct the moment when the audience should hear Bogart’s stomach rumbling), and won the Pulitzer Prize posthumously for his once-read-never-forgotten novel, A Death in the Family. He died in 1955, aged 45, in the back of a New York taxi cab (we were not told how), wrote the script for The African Queen (going so far as to direct the moment when the audience should hear Bogart’s stomach rumbling), and won the Pulitzer Prize posthumously for his once-read-never-forgotten

Jules Evans

The Russian whose fortune fell from the sky

Jules Evans says billionaire industrialist Oleg Deripaska has global business ambitions — but a dispute with another Russian tycoon, Michael Cherney, may get in his way Oleg Deripaska wants it all. He already has quite a lot: assets in Russian insurance, pulp, construction, airports, media, cars, and oil, and a controlling stake in the world’s largest aluminium company, Rusal. These make him Russia’s second-richest man, worth $18 billion according to Forbes; only Roman Abramovich is richer. But Deripaska’s ambition is not yet sated. He wants a place in the top league of global businessmen alongside Bill Gates and Lakshmi Mittal. And so far his ambition appears to enjoy strong Kremlin

Ross Clark Ross Clark

More bad news: no housing shortage

While all eyes were on the crash of Northern Rock last week, something even scarier was happening. Two of Britain’s many house price indices — there were eight competing in a crowded market last time I counted — reminded us that property prices can fall as well as rise. The Royal Institution of Chartered Surveyors reported that a net balance of 1.8 per cent of its members say house prices fell in August. Then Rightmove, the property website, reported that asking prices in England and Wales had fallen by an average of 2.6 per cent. If you have just bought a job lot of buy-to-let apartments in Docklands on the

Martin Vander Weyer Martin Vander Weyer

How the spirit of the Rock triumphed over the prudence of the Northern

Hindsight suggests that the Rock was always likely to get the Northern into trouble one day. The Northern Counties Permanent Building Society, founded in 1850 as the successor to the Newcastle Land Society, was by reputation ‘a serious establishment’ (one of its first decisions was to ban women from its board, a ruling observed by its successor until 1999) and its early growth was relatively slow. By the turn of the 20th century, it still had only 216 mortgage borrowers, and was one of no less than 29 building societies in a city of 270,000 people. During and after the second world war it expanded by absorbing smaller societies —

The Spectator

There may be trouble ahead

Extraordinary measures are sometimes necessary to quell the madness of crowds. When Diana, Princess of Wales’s mourners threatened to vent their angry grief on the institution of monarchy itself, it became necessary for the Queen to speak directly to her people. Extraordinary measures are sometimes necessary to quell the madness of crowds. When Diana, Princess of Wales’s mourners threatened to vent their angry grief on the institution of monarchy itself, it became necessary for the Queen to speak directly to her people. As the run on Northern Rock gathered momentum on Monday and panic-stricken depositors threatened to vent their anger on the government, there were only two possible responses. The

Simon Hoggart

Spectator Mini-Bar offer

For some reason I like to have a theme for our mini-bar offers, concentrating on a particular country, region or grower. I couldn’t think of one this time, but I did want to bring back Private Cellar, one of my favourite merchants, whose small team seems to have pretty unerring palates and who can nose out excellent wines at good prices. I suppose, faute de mieux, I could call this offer Old and New Classics. The first new classic is Dr Ernst Loosen’s Villa Wolf Pinot Gris 2006 (1) from the Pfalz area of Germany. This is unlike any German wine you have tried. For one thing it is not

Lucy Vickery

Sobering thoughts | 22 September 2007

In Competition No. 2512 you were invited to submit a description of a hangover in heroic couplets. I judged the comp after a night’s carousing and your couplets, which were clearly informed by bitter experience, elicited shudders of queasy recognition and the inevitable doomed resolution never again to touch a drop. Simon Machin’s reference to being beaten up by secret police recalls Kingsley Amis’s unforgettable, wince-inducing description of Jim Dixon’s hangover: ‘And body sprawled as if in pained release,/ From being beaten by the secret police’. And thanks to Virginia Price Evans for a vivid description of drunkenness rather than its consequences. The winners, printed below, get £25 each and

Frank Keating

Victorious Plum

Spectator readers Alan Magid and Timothy Straker were quick on the draw (Letters, 25 August, 8 September) to champion Mike by P.G. Wodehouse in a matey reproach to Robert Stewart’s assertion in his review of Baseball Haiku (Books, 18 August) that there had never been a significant cricket novel. Spectator readers Alan Magid and Timothy Straker were quick on the draw (Letters, 25 August, 8 September) to champion Mike by P.G. Wodehouse in a matey reproach to Robert Stewart’s assertion in his review of Baseball Haiku (Books, 18 August) that there had never been a significant cricket novel. Their testimony would have cheered not only Wodehouse himself but another notable

Irwin Stelzer

Brown and his critics must admit their errors

Not even his severest critics doubt Gordon Brown’s intelligence. They might object to the causes in which it has been enlisted, but they knew that it is both formidable and restless. Nor do the Prime Minister’s critics doubt that he has a coherent vision of where he wants to take Great Britain, what sort of society he would like to create (the assumption being that it is in his power to do just that). Again, they might disagree on the consequences of striving for greater equality of income and wealth distribution, or the efficacy of stuffing an unreformed public sector with cash. But they have no doubt that Gordon Brown

Rod Liddle Rod Liddle

A fond farewell to the Commission for Racial Equality

Less a rage against the dying of the light, more a prolonged, high-pitched whine of complaint and self-justification, the sound of a swarm of badly earthed strimmers, heard from a distance on an early autumn morning. The Commission for Racial Equality has issued its valedictory press release before its duties are acquired by the Commission for Equality and Human Rights next month. The new organisation, headed by Trevor Phillips, will co-ordinate all manner of whining on behalf of absolutely anybody who considers him- or herself to be oppressed and victimised and discriminated against by the vindictive white male hegemony. Good luck to it. The CRE, meanwhile, has left us with