Douglas Murray

What are the circumstances in which it is right to smash up a building? When might one justifiably destroy an artwork? And what are the conditions under which one might splinter someone’s spine with a sledgehammer? Many on the left seem to have satisfied themselves on all these questions. But I wonder if they have even begun to reckon with the consequences. One can only hope that those who urge on ‘direct action’ have no idea how slippery a slope they are on Back in 2019 a group of activists from Extinction Rebellion took their views on fossil fuels to Belvedere Road in central London. There, at the site of the Shell building, they smashed windows, spray-painted walls and caused other criminal damage.

I get the sense that the political and media class badly miss Katie Hopkins. Back when the reality TV star was still a regular on our screens and in our newspapers, she could be relied upon to be the focus of attention whenever the people in charge didn’t want the public’s attention to be focused where it ought to be. So when a British soldier was decapitated on the streets of London, or a suicide bomber went off at a pop concert packed with teenage girls, Ms Hopkins could be found saying something that a lot of people were thinking – only in a more colourful or unwise way.

I wonder how many readers have ever heard of the name Kriss Donald? The young Glaswegian was just 15 years old in 2004 when he was kidnapped by a local gang of Pakistani men. The group selected him because he was white and they had some beef with a group of white men with whom Donald had no connection at all. After driving around for hours, the gang – led by one Imran Shahid – stabbed Donald repeatedly before dousing his body in petrol and setting him alight. I also wonder how many readers have heard of the name Tony Timpa? The white, unarmed Texan was 32 in 2016 when he suffered some sort of mental breakdown in public. Instead of assisting him, police arrived at the scene and restrained him in such a way that he died.

What would you say if your spouse bought a luxury campervan? I know what I would say – something along the lines of: ‘Get that thing away from me. I refuse to spend wet weekends campervanning around the Highlands, and I don’t care whether the bathroom facilities are “luxury” or not.’ In other words, any spouse of mine would get a tongue-lashing. But then I have a spiritual aversion to campervans, having spent many a childhood summer stuck behind them on single-track roads in the Highlands, watching their foul residents bespoil many of Scotland’s best beaches. We cannot know what Nicola Sturgeon’s reaction was to this luxury monstrosity. She would have us believe that when Peter Murrell took receipt of his top-of-the-range campervan she had nothing to say.

The Labour party seems to have ignored the advice I gave it in last week’s column, and so we are going to be treated to one of those down-market beauty pageants where candidates for the Labour leadership spend weeks talking competitively about the evils of Thatcherism, the nobility of miners and the perpetual threat of NHS privatisation. We might also look forward to watching the leadership candidates go for a jog, play football in an amusing manner and eat this country’s most disgusting foodstuffs as evidence of their authenticity. One of the candidates for this pie-eating competition is the now-resigned health secretary Wes Streeting. And on this particular candidate I have some history to narrate.

There are many ways to do nothing. One is to sit on your hands; another is to call for ‘a conversation’. I have noticed quite a lot of calls for ‘a conversation’ since the stabbing of two Jewish men in Golders Green last week. Some politicians and pundits have even been bold enough to call for a ‘national conversation’. This is when you can tell people are pulling out the big guns. One reason I say it is also a variant on doing nothing is because this has happened so many times before. I remember Theresa May standing near the site of the London Bridge attacks in 2017, surrounded by various leaders, insisting that we need to tackle ‘extremism’. The results were a real stunner – even for connoisseurs of inertia.

Willie Donaldson, who died in 2005, has a claim to having had the best obituary sub-heading of any writer I know. ‘Wykehamist pimp, crack fiend and adulterer who created Henry Root and Beyond the Fringe’ was how the Telegraph memorably summed up his life. As readers of his biography, You Cannot Live As I Have Lived and Not End Up Like This, will know, all of the above was true. Donaldson came to mind this week because of something a mutual friend once told me about him – that is his fondness for using the word ‘dead’ as a pejorative. While practising the vituperative arts, he would occasionally describe a politician whose reputation he had it in for as ‘the dead politician’ etc.

There has been so much news of late that stories which might once have caused a splash have sailed by all but unnoticed. One in particular seems worthy of bringing into a greater light, not least because it has been almost entirely ignored by the English-language media. Tariq Ramadan is the grandson of the founder of the Muslim Brotherhood. In recent years he was probably the most famous Muslim intellectual in the West. Last month, a court in Paris found him guilty of the rape of three women and sentenced him to 18 years in prison. To Islamic audiences he preached one message, to western audiences he told another The case is the culmination of several trials since allegations were first made against him in 2017.

I have spent a small portion of the past week wondering what I would do if I thought communists were about to take over our country. At the more civil end of things, I could see myself going on an anti-communist protest, though I would shrink away if I noticed that my fellow marchers were flying swastikas. I don’t exactly know what I would do next. Perhaps I would hope for another election soon, and do what I could to unite other anti-communists. One thing I am fairly sure I would not do would be to dance. In fact, were this country facing the prospect of Stalinism coming at us full force, the last thing I would do would be to get a DJ, book a stage in Trafalgar Square, hire some go-go dancers and rave it up.

During the Cold War I am fairly certain that films, TV dramas and other popular entertainment did not remain silent on the threat posed by the Soviets. In fact my memory from those times was that popular culture was filled with Russian baddies, drunken homosexualist double--agents and great western super-heroes who were intent on taking down the commie threat. As cineastes know, this culminated in David Zucker’s 1988 master-piece The Naked Gun. In the opening scene, Lieutenant Frank Drebin of Police Squad disrupted a meeting in Beirut where an attack on America was being planned by Idi Amin, Yasser Arafat, Colonel Gaddafi, Mikhail Gorbachev and the Ayatollah Khomeini. Our hero duffed up each of them one by one.

Some years ago I was approached by someone from a platform called ‘Cameo’. Not all Spectator readers will have heard of this platform, and I hadn’t either. As a result I listened to their pitch with the same amount of scepticism I might reserve for an email addressed to me as ‘Dear Beloved’, revealing that a distant relative had left me a share in a Nigerian diamond mine, and that if only I sent a quick cash deposit the diamonds would start flowing in my direction. I was informed that Cameo was a platform where I could make ‘easy money’. Being part-Scottish, I do not believe that there is any such thing. In fact I find the whole idea of easy money a contradiction in terms.

Sometimes the obvious is so obvious that people forget to state it. So let me observe one small footnote among recent obvious things. Earlier this month, Donald Trump killed the Ayatollah Ali Khamenei and most of the senior leadership of the Islamic Revolutionary government in Iran. There are many things to be said against the Ayatollah and his friends. Since 1979 they have repressed the population of Iran and hurtled one of the great civilisations backwards by a millennium. From the start of the revolution they have murdered their domestic opponents by the thousands. They have shot students in the head when they came out on to the streets in protest. They have massacred, raped and tortured prisoners. They have exported terror around the world.

The interesting thing about political pendulums is that they always over-swing. In the campaign for this week’s Gorton and Denton by-election, one of the main lines of attack on the Reform candidate is that he used to be an academic and is therefore ill-suited to being the area’s parliamentary representative. The candidate who has suffered these attacks – Matt Goodwin – has countered that he is the first person in his family to have gone to university. He has also stressed that he was brought up in a one-parent household. That hasn’t cut it with the class-warriors of his rivals like the Green party’s Hannah Spencer. In one of her campaign videos, Ms Spencer has gone so far as to do a speech to camera while preparing some plaster for a wall.

There is a moment in Evelyn Waugh’s Decline and Fall which has been much on my mind lately. It is the bit towards the very end of the novel when our hero, Paul Pennyfeather, re-encounters the sinister modernist architect Professor Otto Silenus. By this point Pennyfeather has undergone all manner of travails. He has been debagged and sent down from Oxford, accused of human-trafficking and sent to prison. But, as the pair sit outside the Corfu villa in which Pennyfeather is staying, the professor suddenly offers to reveal his theory about the meaning of life. How many people in politics have been picked up and flung off this great revolving fairground ride? Silenus describes a particular fairground attraction, the Devil’s Wheel (‘the big wheel at Luna Park’).