Rod Liddle

I went to Relate once, the counselling service formerly known as the National Marriage Guidance Council. I wasn’t married at the time — this was about 25 years ago — but in a long-term relationship. Or at least it was long-term for me at the time. My girlfriend went with me and I rather hoped they might say to her: ‘Stop shagging that man called Raymond, you little whore.’ But they didn’t at all. They kind of noted the existence of Raymond in what seemed to be a slightly approving manner, and suggested it was probably for the best if we all moved on, separately, away from each other. Relate was founded in 1938 by a clergyman, Herbert Gray, who was worried about rising divorce rates. I think he believed this was a bad thing on the whole.

Now that the Scots have banned people from smacking kids — both their own and, presumably, those that belong to other people — I suppose we will dutifully follow suit and another one of life’s harmless little pleasures will have bitten the dust. Fair enough, we can still say horrible, frightening things to them in order to exert a bit of discipline. But the immense satisfaction of hearing them howl in pain from a sharp slap to the leg, or a nasty pinch to the upper arm, will be gone for good.  Not many parents do hit their kids any more. It is already a vanishing art. Smacking unruly brats has been de trop for ages, especially among the middle classes.

Anyone subscribe to Private Eye? I do, and have done for almost forty years. But I am beginning to wonder why. The cackle quotient declines on an almost weekly basis and this week I couldn’t find a single thing to laugh at. One can usually depend upon Craig Brown’s piece and 'From The Message Boards', which is almost always very cleverly written. But not this edition. There’s also Dumb Britain which often raises a laugh and Pseuds Corner. But the main body of the mag has been a humour-free zone for yonks. A few years back they increased the number of cartoons hugely, presumably in order to fill in for the otherwise utter absence of mirth. But the cartoons – unless the wonderful McLachlan has contributed – are pretty dire and sometimes inexplicable.

Very good piece from Giles Coren (as usual) on the intrusive and aggressive act of putting 'xx' at the end of emails. I had been thinking pretty much the same thing. I suppose one could quote Derrida and the structuralists and insist that there is no one-to-one relationship between the signifier (the 'xx') and the thing signified (putting your tongue halfway down some babe’s throat). There certainly isn’t when I do it. But there’s the fear. What if the recipient isn’t a structuralist? Incidentally, if you want to see where we are right now with this issue, just read the comments from Caroline Kirkpatrick.

My own fault, I suppose, for turning on the television. Not an action I undertake very regularly these days, because I am trying to be a nicer person. Some time ago, Charles Moore wrote in his Spectator diary about a hitherto ghastly, bitter old woman who had suddenly become much more pleasant to everybody. What had effected this change? ‘I have stopped reading the Daily Mail,’ she explained. So it is with me and the idiot box. I become so enraged at being clubbed over the head by the politically correct dwarves of death who inhabit that poxed machine in the corner that I stamp around and make everybody miserable with my ranting. Not just the news programmes, either, although they’re the worst.