Rod Liddle

I know he is a maniac and we should have had him shot or poisoned years ago; I know that his son is a ghastly arriviste who, worse, is friends with Peter Mandelson. But there is still something about Colonel Gaddafi which gladdens the heart. I first decided I liked him a bit when he insisted that out greatest literary figure was actually an Arab called Sheikh Spear. And his plan to extort billions and billions of pounds from the EU in order to stop African emigration here has a terrific very un-PC chutzpah about it. Here’s what he said: 'Europe runs the risk of turning black from illegal immigration, it could turn into Africa. 'We need support from the European Union to stop this army trying to get across from Libya, which is their entry point.

Apologies for the interregnum – I’ve been away in Austria, where there are mountains and you can smoke in hotel lifts. It’s a beautiful country. While there I read Michael Burleigh’s superb book, Moral Combat, which is about why we were totally right in World War Two. It was an enormous pleasure to have it propped up on the breakfast table as the Austrian waiters scurried hither and thither. I wonder if Sir Liam Donaldson has ever gone to Austria and if so, what he took to read there. Austrians have the highest smoking rate of any country in western Europe. They also have a fantastically unhealthy diet; not a single thing on any menu I saw for two weeks would be allowed into a child’s lunch box over here.

Rod Liddle says that the battle over the Islamic cultural centre mirrors the tortuous debate we’ve all endured for nearly a decade Like you, I suspect, I am hugely enjoying the debate as to whether or not a huge Islamic cultural centre and prayer room should be built 100 yards or so from Ground Zero in New York — where, fittingly, Islam made perhaps its most iconic and vibrant cultural statement of the present century. For many of those who lost husbands, wives, friends and colleagues in the 9/11 attacks, the plan for a mosque seems to be — you know — just pushing it a little bit: a little test to the old tolerance and patience.

Under guidelines introduced by the last government, dis-abled people are now allowed to decide the kind of services they want from local authorities. This is called ‘empowerment’ and ‘devolving services to people in the front line’, and it is a good thing, apparently. But it has had certain unexpected consequences. Bizarrely, it seems that in many cases dis-abled people do not want to sit in a frowsy community centre which smells of stale flatus making raffia baskets for begonias, fortified by the occasional cup of tea and a pat on the shoulder and so on, as was previously assumed. What they actually want, it transpires, is a bloody good seeing to. With a congenial and well-lubricated whore. Preferably somewhere abroad.

This follows very neatly on from the previous thread. If there is one industry where the staff are suffused with an endless sense of self importance and a determination to (literally in some cases) bugger the public, then it is the airline industry. Since 9/11 trolly dollies and whatever name is given to their gay male counterparts seem to believe they are provisional members of the police force, allowed to hector, bully and punish passengers in the name of “security” when, most of the time, it is just about them feeling better about themselves. Like airport staff they are invariably thick and vindictive.

Well, I’ve done the totting up and the results won’t terribly surprise you. The winner, or loser, by a mile is Harriet Harman, followed by Peter Mandelson, and with three scumbags running neck and neck behind him: Galloway, Blair and Brown. After that comes Mr Balls. A surprising number of you really hate Simon Hughes, a surprising number of you don’t hate Ted Heath. Tony Benn scored highly and so did Prezza.

The manufacturer of slow, naff, French cars, Renault, has infuriated residents of a village in Lancashire by comparing it unfavourably with a village in France, in an advertising campaign which it thinks will win over British customers. People in the lovely Ribble Valley village of Gisburn were appalled to see their home mocked in comparison to the mincing polo-shirted deck-shoed town of Menton, which lies on the fabled and greatly overrated Côte d'Azur. Menton was once part of Italy, and also the Genoese empire, and also Vichy France. In other words it has capitulated more times even than Marshall Petain. I suspect four OAPS from Gisburn could probably annexe Menton for the Crown inside about two hours; all they'd have to do is turn up and sneer nastily.

Swathed in ermine, carried into the Chilcott Inquiry on a giant litter borne aloft by naked research assistants, and chewing a Lion Bar, Lord Prescott told the world he’d always been a bit, uh, nervous about the invasion of Iraq. Nice of you to share that with us now, John, many thanks. And also the fact that you were “surprised” at how “insubstantial” some of the reports on Iraq’s weapons of mass destruction really were. That would have been nice to know at the time, too. The insinuation is that he was against the war but stood by his leader out of loyalty. I’m sure the Iraqis and the dead British soldiers are appreciative of that loyalty, your lordship.

There is a letter in the latest edition of the magazine scolding my good friend James Delingpole for being rude about Prince Charles. The letter concludes like so: “The wording is intemperate and cowardly and shames The Spectator.” As I remember, James, with a certain flair, had simply pointed out that Prince Charles was a bit of a dingbat, all things considered. I thought this was a view shared by everyone, including Charles’s mum. But anyway, that’s not why I bring the matter up. The letter is signed: Lord Remnant, Henley-on-Thames. Lord what? Lord Remnant? I immediately assumed that this was someone playing a joke on James, someone who had read too much Wodehouse.