Rod Liddle is associate editor of The Spectator.
Could I take this opportunity to advise people to self-isolate in the Highlands of Scotland? Not many people around – and good walking country. I mention this because SNP MSP Kate Forbes has urged people from virus stricken areas not to come visit. You are risking lives, she says. The virus spreads because we are
Hulking fat chavs pushing shopping trolleys full of lavatory paper back to their Nissan Micras. I can’t think of a better image to sum up the coronavirus crisis right now. I saw a bunch of them outside my local branch of Morrisons on Sunday morning, their expressions uniformly defiant and smug. One family had at
The most surprising thing about the letter from Guardian and Observer journalists moaning about Suzanne Moore’s supposed ‘transphobia’ is that it contained 338 signatures. This must be the first time a newspaper has had more writers than readers. What an extraordinarily bloated institution — how does it survive? Through those often advertised workshops where Owen
We have now got past the absurd stage of glaring in a reproachful manner at Chinese people on the tube. Coronavirus is disrupting sporting events, so this rather mild-mannered little bug has acquired crisis cachet and we must all take it very seriously. Lots of us will die of it, apparently — in this country
Grade: B+ It is an eternal mystery to me why Britain has never had much time for power pop, seeing as we gave this often charming genre to the world through the Beatles and, to a lesser extent, Badfinger. But we never really swung for it, post-Abbey Road. When power pop had its mild renaissance
We will rue the day we all decided bullying was a bad thing. The consequence is that the inept, the imbecilic and the perpetually frit will hang on to their jobs and we will become a much less efficient country. By bullying I do not mean physically beating someone up and stealing their lunch money,
Grade: B The old axiom no longer applies. In modern popular music, it is possible not only to gild a turd, but to gild it so copiously that consumers scarcely catch a whiff of the ordure underneath. The studio is everything: you no longer need to be able to sing, write a tune or play
Words we are not allowed to use any more now include ‘cultural Marxism’. Suella Braverman, now the Attorney General, used them last year and was immediately upbraided by the organisation Hope Not Hate. Very right-wing people sometimes use it too, you see, so it must never be uttered by anyone else. Banning the use of
Grade: D– For my first review of popular music releases in 2020 I thought I’d deposit this large vat of crap over your heads. This is the fifth album from Canada’s androgynous, tattooed bratlette — purveyor of corporate trap dross to the world’s pre-pubescent thots, skanks and wannabe hos. Trouble is, even for the dumbest
A couple of people in the Hornsey and Wood Green Labour party have come up with a fascinating suggestion — a section of the party for working-class people. I don’t know their names, but let’s call them Bob and Hilda for the time being. Bob and Hilda, the last two working–class people alive in the
Sudesh Amman was singularly unsuccessful in his wish to kill kafirs, as he put it, and thereby find himself surrounded by the hoor al ayn — beautiful handmaidens who’ll do anything you want, frankly — in the afterlife. He had perhaps not followed the instructions in the book he had about how to stab people.
They are getting themselves terribly worked up about that new 50 pence coin commemorating our departure from the European Union. By ‘they’ I mean those people in the Brexit Derangement Syndrome intensive care ward, wired up to saline drips, attended to day and night, occasionally afforded a few thousand volts of ECT when things get
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First, as the news agenda is dominated by things like Huawei, HS2, and public spending, could politics be – whisper it – returning to normal? In his cover piece this week, Rod Liddle writes how, for the most part, the election result has put a lid on the civil war between Remainers and Brexiteers. One
Whoever becomes the next director-general of the BBC should take a close look at last week’s Question Time. It came from Liverpool, which is perhaps the most left-wing city in the country, Brighton excepted. On it, the actor Laurence Fox was making sensible comments about the Harry and Meghan business (which is beginning to bore
There is a fascinating social media group which I think we should all join. It is called ‘DeMOCKracy — 2019 12/12 UK Election Was Undemocratic’. I hadn’t realised, but apparently the election was ‘rigged by Tory billionaires’ to ensure Jeremy Corbyn was defeated. This was done with the aid of fraudulent postal votes, Tory lies,
Watch out for Emily Thornberry. She has sneaked through to the next round of the Labour leadership contest because of nominations to make the whole thing “more diverse”. Some of those who nominated her stressed that this was not an endorsement of the woman. There are people in the Parliamentary Labour Party who haven’t learned
If this is the start of the third world war, as some quivering liberal commentators seem to believe, then my suspicion is that it will be over quite quickly, such is the majestic impotence of our opponents. I realise it is unwise to underestimate one’s enemy, but come on. In the immediate aftermath of the
Just to sour the festive mood a little, I thought I’d ask what are your least favourite Christmas songs and carols. I’ve got lots of least favourites. ‘Look to the future now, it’s only just begun’, from Slade’s Merry Xmas Everybody is probably the most stupid line ever written in a song. But I like
Diane Abbott I spent the entire day searching for those familiar traditional Christmas delicacies which all kids adore – but could find none anywhere. From shop to shop I went, asking: ‘Do you have any of those large chocolate eggs that children like so much at this time of year? Very often sold in cardboard
There were not many moments of gloom on election night. I spent most of it, so far as I can recall, in a state of inebriated euphoric gloating — enhanced by the fact that I had hitherto been extremely worried about the outcome. Winning goals are always the most enjoyable when scored, unexpectedly, in injury