Rod Liddle

I saw MPs Peter Hain and Andrew Mitchell agreeing with each other on Newsnight about the need, now, to talk to President Assad, so that we might better combat the Islamic savages running amok in Syria and Iraq. Yee-haw. If I could see, two years back, that Assad was infinitely preferable to the majority of those people who took arms against him, then why couldn’t our politicians? Do they really still cleave to the idiotic view that the Arab people are 'just like us' and are ready and waiting for a pluralistic, representational democracy, perhaps with the alternative vote in place for local council elections, and maybe Baroness Ashton and the Howard League for Penal Reform ('can’t you just cut off his hand, rather than the whole arm?'). How could any sane person believe that?

I was attacked by a swan the other day, as I walked along the bank of the River Stour in Kent. The creature climbed out of the water and lunged towards me, wings puffed up, making this guttural and hate-filled coughing noise. I kicked out at its stupid neck and told it to fuck off and the bird backed away towards the river, still making that demented hissing, like a badly maintained boiler. At first I was mystified as to how I had gained its enmity. I wasn’t near its mate and still further distant from its sallow and bedraggled idiot children. Nor had I advanced towards it, or even given it a threatening glare. And then the horrible realisation dawned on me. The swan had attacked me because it believed — mistakenly — that I was Jewish.

Is your life saturated with racial meaning? The most common answer to this question, when I ask friends and acquaintances, and sometimes people in the street going about their business, is: ‘Your inquiry makes no sense whatsoever. It sounds like the sort of pretentious and thoroughly bogus question dreamed up by some idiotic sociology lecturer in a third-rate polytechnic. Now go away, I have lost my place in the queue at Burger King and will have to wait ages for a bacon double cheeseburger.’ The correct answer, however, is ‘yes’. Our lives are saturated with racial meaning — I have it on good authority. I don’t know what it means, but nonetheless we are all soaking wet with racial meaning, all of us. You especially, probably.

I was a little saddened by Baroness Warsi’s resignation. I like the woman; it is an odd and disturbing thing to say, but I felt I had more in common with her – a Muslim, Asian, woman – than almost any other prominent Tory. I’m not sure why this is. Perhaps class has something to do with it. I’m no Conservative but I think Cameron could have made more of her: he’s short of people who a). possess a vagina b). were state school educated c). come from ethnic minorities and d). talk as if they are members of the human race. She resigned on a point of principle, which is a good thing. They don’t often do that, the politicians. So we should commend her for her single-mindedness.

Are all of Britain’s fasting Muslims about to die because of the heatwave? This is what’s worrying me as I sit in my darkened room — curtains drawn and lights down low, according to the official government advice. Dr Paul Cosford of something called ‘Public Health England’ said: ‘Many members of the Muslim community may be fasting during the current period of Ramadan. During hot weather it’s important to balance food and fluid intake between fasts and especially to drink enough water.’ One can only hope and pray that as most of England’s Muslims come from Bangladesh, India and Pakistan, where the temperature exceeds on a daily basis what we’re experiencing for a few hours, they might be ok, Paul – huh?

The best team won, and the best two teams reached the final. This is a comparatively rare event at a world cup. And it was a fine world cup in general, with plenty of things to gladden the heart – the hammering of Spain by the Netherlands, the hammering of Brazil by Germany, the eviction at stage one of teams who think too highly of themselves, the emergence of doughty underdogs (Iran, Ghana, Chile, Costa Rica). The Netherlands remain an enigma; they are either wonderfully fluent or suddenly turn into England. But their record, for a country with a fifth of our population, is excellent.

Sorry – bit of an interregnum in the World Cup diary, caused principally by England’s pathetic capitulation. But still the tournament gives pleasure, perhaps to a greater degree than it has done in thirty years or more. Watching Brazil get stuffed on their own midden heap was an enormous pleasure. Their thuggery in the previous round, against Colombia, came back to haunt them; there is karma in football. That’s why Leeds Utd are still in the lower reaches of the Championship.  Germany were magnificent; Brazil gave in after the second goal — but truth be told, they were never terribly good. One thing bothers me, though — at the start of these games the opposing players are horribly matey and affectionate to one another.

I’ve been cheering for the Dutch as a sort of thank-you for them humiliating Spain. But there was something thoroughly unpleasant about the way they dispatched Mexico, the world’s great footballing under-achievers. The fairly horrible, if undoubtedly talented, Arjen Robben dived for the penalty which won the game. It may have been a foul, of a sort – although I don’t think so, and mere contact should never be enough to warrant a foul – but whatever, the bald Dutchman dived, and should have been booked. Previously, toothless Uruguay had deservedly lost to Colombia: we are beginning to understand just how utterly shite England were, no? England bottom of a group in which the triumphant top two all go out in the next round (probably).

What image comes to mind when we think of Britain today? I was moved to contemplate this question after reading the Prime Minister’s inspiring treatise on British values, which seemed to involve ‘being quite nice’ and not referring to other people as kaffir and then trying to blow them up. Fair enough. I suppose — as an image of Britain, Sonny and Cher jihadis bringing their arcane and vicious sandblown squabble to the streets of London is perhaps a more modernist take on John Major’s vision of an old maid cycling to morning communion through the early morning mist.

What a fabulously boring England performance. I watched it only because I had this to write and now feel resentful towards you, which is unfair. Because I don’t suppose you want to hear anything about it, really. The inquest into our national team’s appalling performance at this World Cup (“I couldn’t have asked for any more from the players” – ©Roy Hodgson, every game. Well in which case, mate, you’re the wrong bloke for the job.) has of course already begun. It is being said that Woy has been given an easy ride – which is a way, I suppose, of not giving him one. But when we look for the reasons it’s worth remembering this.