Bruce Anderson

Pictures are more powerful than principles. A few weeks ago, newspapers published photographs of a 12-week-old male foetus. It was not a blob of tissue but a proto-human. Yet for a further 12 weeks after the pictures were taken it would have been legal to kill this pre-baby in the womb. Other stories appeared. A child had been born at 23 weeks. That is within the legal limit for abortions. It had lived. Nor did all aborted foetuses die in the womb. Occasionally, mistakes were made and little creatures emerged alive. They were put on one side, until they alleviated everyone’s embarrassment by expiring. The photographs and the details led to a lot of foot-shuffling.

Bruce Anderson says that the scandalous events of the past week show that the Arabs can take brutality — but not from American women Anyone who wants to understand the peoples of Arabia and the surrounding regions ought to start with Wilfred Thesiger’s Arabian Sands. He was writing about the late 1940s and, as he knew, the world which he described was about to vanish. This provides the modern reader with a necessary perspective. It should make him aware that in the whole of human history, no major region has undergone such profound changes in such a short period. Today, the Maktoums of Dubai fly the world in their private 747s to inspect racehorses. Then, they still rode out on camels to battles and blood feuds against their neighbours.

For nearly seven years, Tony Blair’s caution was the Europhiles’ despair. They wanted him to make the case for Europe and exploit his hold over public opinion. Their confidence exceeded his. Mr Blair was not prepared to take electoral risks for Europe. As recently as December, when the EU constitution seemed lost in the long grass, the PM did not send a search party. Now everything is different, thanks to al-Qa’eda. Spain’s constitutional obstructiveness ended overnight and with it Poland’s. Suddenly Mr Blair had a choice: renounce his Euro diplomatic ambitions, or embrace the constitution. The speed with which he made his decision surprised some of his former critics, who are now almost ready to credit him with courage.

I wants to make your flesh creep,’ is the Fat Boy’s refrain in the Pickwick Papers. In Berlin last week, I was at a conference which the Fat Boy would have enjoyed. The subject was terror; the threat that weapons of mass destruction in terrorist hands would pose to the West, during the foreseeable future. One point impressed itself, instantly and forcefully. The proceedings were dominated by scientists, discussing anthrax, smallpox and chemical weapons in the most matter-of-fact manner. There was agreement that given the difficulty of acquiring plutonium or enriched uranium, the terrorist nuclear threat was still over the horizon. But as for all other threats, horizons contract and dangers close in. Everyone there seemed convinced of the inevitability of terrorist outrages.

I am not an expert on the sleeping habits of adolescents. But I have consulted a number of authorities, viz parents. Their conclusions were unanimous. Cherie Blair’s claim that anxieties over Hutton had disrupted her teenage/student children’s sleep is not credible. It may be difficult to persuade such youngsters to go to bed. Once they are horizontal, forget sleeplessness in the small hours. They are much more likely to need a wet sponge at midday. An insomniac adolescent is as improbable as a father who does not notice that £500,000 of savings have been used to buy student flats. If Mrs Blair cannot come up with better stories, she ought to go back to protecting the family’s privacy.

Until well into the 1980s, the death penalty was a problem for aspiring Tory candidates. Local associations were almost always in favour, strongly. This led to much wrestling with conscience. Conscience often lost. Matters were easier for card-carrying intellectuals. Any constituency prepared to consider one of them had already braced itself for bizarre opinions. But it would have been unwise for a beef-faced squire to declare his opposition to hanging. His audience would have assumed that he had a host of other suspect tastes. Even as recently as the mid-1990s, Shaun Woodward felt it necessary to tell the Tories of West Oxfordshire that he was a hanger.

Pompous, lobotomised-Lutyens details strive to rescue it from banality. They fail. Conservative Central Office looks like just another bog-standard 1950s office block. The appearance is deceptive. It is far worse than that. Whatever ‘bad karma’ means, Central Office has it. The atmosphere sets one’s teeth on edge, while encouraging the inhabitants to stab one another with hat-pins. The safeguarding of bureaucratic enclaves becomes the principal business of the day. There must be a dramatic explanation for all that malevolence. If the building were torn down, something unspeakable might be discovered in the foundations: a plague pit, or the bones of murdered children.

Few Tory MPs set off for the summer recess in a confident mood. There is unease about the opinion polls, and the leader. There is also grumbling about IDS's failure to sharpen up the shadow Cabinet, though it would have been hard for him to do that. The obvious candidates for the sack are Quentin Davies, John Hayes and Bernard Jenkin, the shadow Defence Secretary who makes Geoff Hoon look like Bismarck. But they are also IDS's closest political allies. So instead, he merely made minor changes to the back row of the front bench. Yet one of these, even if unlikely to transform the party's short-term fortunes, has provided Tory MPs with some reason to feel cheerful.

A PAIR of lionesses were ambling through the grass; three cubs were scampering around them. A delightful spectacle, but this was the African bush, not Disneyland. The lionesses were not going for a stroll. It was many hours since their last meal, so they were out to kill and feed. As for the cubs, they were playing regardless of their doom. I said to our guide that they had presumably survived the worst menaces that overshadow leonine infancy, but was told that this was not the case. Unfortunately for them, the leader of their little pride was a ten-year-old lion. That is late middle-age in the lion world and, in the same neighbourhood, a four-year-old lion was lurking.

THE Tories need not despair. Their problems, though grave, are less serious than a superficial reading of the opinion polls would suggest. Anyone trying to make sense of current British politics ought to seek guidance from two unorthodox sources, F.H. Bradley and Greg Dyke. Bradley wrote a book called Appearance and Reality; in politics, the gap has never been greater, one reason why Mr Dyke wishes to debase the BBC's political coverage. As for appearance, everything seems clear. Mr Blair has marginalised the opposition to the extent that he virtually controls the language of public debate. The Prime Minister's hegemony has persuaded much of the media class, including Mr Dyke, that his position is unassailable.