Immigration

Politicians are doing an excellent job responding to the Calais migrant crisis - if you’re assessing them against the rules of a Summer Crisis, that is. Today we have yet another ‘crackdown’ on employers who give jobs to illegal immigrants, with James Brokenshire announcing that ‘rogue employers’ will feel ‘the full force of the law’ and that he will ‘use the full force of government machinery to hit them from all angles’. This does sound rather as though Brokenshire is going on a rampage in a combine harvester, but in plain English, what he apparently means is raids on building sites, care homes and cleaning contractors.

David Cameron should be in real trouble over Calais. It goes to the heart of two of the central issues by which British voters judge governments: are you competent and can you control immigration. Judging by the unstoppable growth of the chaotic 'Jungle', the increasing number of assaults on Eurotunnel staff and the rising number of tragic and needless deaths, we know the answer to the competence question. To paraphrase Sam Goldwyn, there are two words for the government: incompetent. Every time a minister comes on the radio or TV to explain what the government is doing, I immediately think 'who is that useless Lib Dem junior minister? No 10 must hate having to compromise on immigration policy.' Then I remember.

I have signed an affidavit for a hearing in the High Court stating that Janan Harb was, to my knowledge, married to Fahd of Saudi Arabia, who later became king of that ghastly country until he ate himself to death. His son Abdul Aziz, a fat playboy who drifts around the world with an entourage of 150 bootlickers, is challenging Janan’s claims, which, in the immortal words of Mandy Rice-Davies, ‘he would, wouldn’t he?’ Saudi camel-drivers-turned-self-proclaimed royals do not like to pay for the mess they leave behind their ample posteriors, and they definitely do not like to pay for their women. (I’ve often wondered if they really think women stay with them for their looks.

The right to free movement of people and goods across the EU is, as we keep being told when the government proposes to trim benefits for Romanians, a fundamental and inalienable principle of the Treaty of Rome. Why then does the European Court of Justice show no interest in the French ferry workers whose strike has led to 30 miles of tailbacks either side of the Channel? There could scarcely be a more brazen example of free movement being thwarted, and yet there seems to be no sign of ferry workers, their union or the French government being taken to court, ordered to let the lorries through or subjected to any other kind of sanction whatsoever. The right to free movement is not really inalienable at all. It is trumped by workers’ rights.

‘Hello. I’m lesbian threesome,’ the young lady tells Taki. ‘And I’m Mongolian rampage,’ says the young man beside her. We’re at Jeremy Clarke’s book launch in the Spectator’s back garden, to which he invited a dozen Low Life readers chosen for submitting the best stories of drunken debauchery. Some were summarised in Jeremy’s column last week, which made for a marvellous party. Throughout the evening, guests tried to match the face to the story. Which reader was kneecapped by a pimp in Amsterdam? Who was the academic who got into a drunken fight with a janitor over the affections of the chemistry teacher? My favourite exchange of the night: ‘Do you think that’s the chap who was whipped naked with riding crops?

When I founded the American Conservative 13 years ago — the purpose being to shine a light on the neocon shenanigans that led to the greatest American foreign policy disaster ever — Pat Buchanan and I held a press conference in the Washington DC Press Club to herald the event. There were reporters galore, and I could tell from their expressions that it wasn’t going to be a friendly session. Buchanan went first and held his own. Then came my turn. A hatchet-faced female hack in the first row asked me if Saudi money was behind me. ‘I wouldn’t accept Saudi blood money if it meant bedding Romola Garai,’ answered the modern Homer (I had seen a preview of I Capture the Castle featuring a nude Romola). ‘What do you mean by that?’ she said.

Today's Times carries an interesting story. A new report from the Department of Education reveals that: ‘Almost one in three of England’s primary school children is from an ethnic minority – the highest level yet.  One pupil in five speaks English as a second language.’ There follows some information about how these numbers are putting an ‘unprecedented pressure’ on schools which now ‘struggle to cope’ after a 2.1 per cent increase in pupils at state primary schools in one year alone. The extraordinary thing about stories like this is that they just sail by.  No politician has anything much to say about it.

It used to be that the most annoying thing in academic life was political correctness. But a new irritant now threatens to supplant it: the scourge of correct politicalness. The essence of correct politicalness is to seek to undermine an irrefutable argument by claiming loudly and repetitively to have found an error in it. As with political correctness, which seeks to undermine arguments by declaring the person making them a bigot, correct politicalness originated in the US. But it now has its exponents here, too. Foremost among them is Jonathan Portes. Portes’s career recalls that of the character Kenneth Widmerpool in Anthony Powell’s Dance to the Music of Time.

A few weeks ago someone very dear to me passed on a question about The Spectator, asked them by a friend. The friend, who I know and like, had read Douglas Murray’s recent report from Lampedusa about the poor Med-faring migrants, and her question was this: ‘Is everyone at The Spectator a racist?’ Some insults brush past without leaving a mark, others pierce the skin and sink in. This one sunk like a splinter, and like a splinter I’ve been worrying away at it ever since, turning what was a small injury into a painful, bloody mess. I can dismiss the accusation easily enough — the Spectator office is multi-racial, the magazine’s editorial line consistently pro-immigration. It’s the questioner who haunts me.

Does anybody else remember life in Britain before the year 2000?  Despite the distressing increase in the number of walking, talking human beings one meets who were born since the millennium, there must be some other people who remember those times.  Yet what a picture of that era is now being painted. Take the incredibly glitzy and celeb-driven campaign currently running thanks to the campaign group ‘Liberty’.  No less a site than The Spectator has run the ads. And understandably so. For they are not only well-funded but feature the icons of our time.