Hugo Rifkind

Hugo Rifkind

Hugo Rifkind is a writer for the Times.

Monday

Hugo Rifkind

Our prisons are a mess – and Amazon’s ‘bumphone’ reviews reveal why

On the Amazon page that sells the world’s smallest mobile phone, the reviews are mainly about putting it into your bottom. ‘What more can you ask for,’ writes a man called John Doe, ‘than this ergonomic phone that fits snugly in your rectum?’ Sean writes, ‘No anal problems!!! Didn’t hurt my bum at all!’ Pookey says it’s ‘easy to butt dial’, although may be talking about something else. For another customer, the big problem is that ‘you can barely feel the vibrate function when it is concealed’. Although don’t worry, because ‘Bluetooth reception is OK’. Why ever take it out? Many of these phones are advertised under the slogan ‘Beat The Boss!

Thursday

Hugo Rifkind

Prisoners, phones and Amazon’s bottom line

On the Amazon page that sells the world’s smallest mobile phone, the reviews are mainly about putting it into your bottom. ‘What more can you ask for,’ writes a man called John Doe, ‘than this ergonomic phone that fits snugly in your rectum?’ Sean writes, ‘No anal problems!!! Didn’t hurt my bum at all!’ Pookey says it’s ‘easy to butt dial’, although may be talking about something else. For another customer, the big problem is that ‘you can barely feel the vibrate function when it is concealed’. Although don’t worry, because ‘Bluetooth reception is OK’. Why ever take it out? Many of these phones are advertised under the slogan ‘Beat The Boss!

Sunday

Hugo Rifkind

Sir John Major is a model former Prime Minister

Sir John Major does political intervention just right, doesn’t he? Never mind what he actually says. Once a year, twice max. Lob in a perfectly prepared hand grenade, wave and get the hell out. None of that terrible neediness of Tony Blair, still so stricken that he’s not in office. No children will cry, nor dogs howl, as they might at the biannual haphazard sight of Gordon Brown. Major is never hysterical, and never cheap, and he always disappears again within 24 hours. Precisely how an ex-prime minister ought to be. David Cameron, wherever he is, should be taking notes.

Saturday

Hugo Rifkind

Nigel Farage isn’t trying to smash the establishment. He’s aching to join it

If the British establishment really wants to troll Ukip, then I suppose it ought to give Douglas Carswell a knighthood for blocking Nigel Farage’s knighthood. He says he didn’t, of course, and I don’t see how he could have done. Farage, though, clearly thinks he did, and his wrath about this is the most fun thing to have happened in British politics for ages. He’s furious. His little demons are furious. Too furious, really. ‘This must be about something else,’ I kept thinking. ‘Deep down, it must be. But what?’ According to the great smoked kipper himself, in the Daily Telegraph on Tuesday, Carswell has been a thorn in the side of Ukip ever since he had the temerity to join it and then win two Westminster elections on its behalf.

Thursday

Hugo Rifkind

The real reason Ukip are tearing each other apart

If the British establishment really wants to troll Ukip, then I suppose it ought to give Douglas Carswell a knighthood for blocking Nigel Farage’s knighthood. He says he didn’t, of course, and I don’t see how he could have done. Farage, though, clearly thinks he did, and his wrath about this is the most fun thing to have happened in British politics for ages. He’s furious. His little demons are furious. Too furious, really. ‘This must be about something else,’ I kept thinking. ‘Deep down, it must be. But what?’ According to the great smoked kipper himself, in the Daily Telegraph on Tuesday, Carswell has been a thorn in the side of Ukip ever since he had the temerity to join it and then win two Westminster elections on its behalf.

Thursday

Hugo Rifkind

I went to Florida to see Disney World. What I found looked like a dying country

I’ve always sensed a whiff of sadness in Florida, perhaps because so many people go there to die. Although not us, obviously, because we went for Disney World. Still, terminality is in the air. In Mafia films, Florida is always, literally, the last resort: the place the wheezing hood heads after he’s failed in the Bronx and Vegas and is now unwittingly destined for a one-way trip on a fishing boat. Somehow, I reckon, they’re feeling the same mystical embalming lure as those Jewish New York retirees who come to trundle their last-ever mobility scooters into their last-ever condominiums. One day, this dangling American dogleg will fall into the sea under the weight of their coastal apartment blocks, as the whole damn country opts to end its days in the sun.

Thursday

Hugo Rifkind

This is not a strong government – so why isn’t the opposition opposing it?

‘For heaven’s sake, man, go!’ A week after the Brexit referendum, and that was David Cameron at the despatch box, on Jeremy Corbyn. It might be in the Tories’ interest for Corbyn to be leading the opposition, said Cameron, but it wasn’t in Britain’s, and he should push off sharpish. At the time, it sounded a lot like deflection. As in, wind your neck in, Hamface. You’re the one who just lost a referendum and your own career, so don’t go blaming it on wild-eyed Grampa Simpson over there, just because he was too busy making jam to do enough press conferences. Latterly, though, I have begun to realise that Cameron was speaking not out of pique, but fear.

Thursday

Hugo Rifkind

Piers Morgan is a shameless brown-noser. But maybe he’s on the right track

A few weeks ago I was having an argument with Piers Morgan on Twitter. Oh God, is that really how I’m going to start this column? What have I become? I was, though, and it started because he was brown-nosing Donald Trump. We’re talking a real nasal frottage here. I expressed derision, and he expressed fury at my derision, and on it went. At one point he called me ‘tough guy’. It was all very manly. Although it wasn’t a one-off, because he’s been at it — I mean the brown-nosing — ever since, including in this very magazine. A column here, a TV appearance there. Last weekend, he was bickering about Trump with Alastair Campbell on Peston. And I’ve been wondering what’s going on. Morgan is not Farage.

Thursday

Hugo Rifkind

In our virtual future, why would anyone work?

A flash of the future, over the holidays, that felt like a flash of the past. It happened on Christmas Day, just after lunch, when my father-in-law gave me a virtual reality headset. It looks like a pair of ski goggles. They used to be fearsomely expensive, but recently some bright spark came up with the idea of replacing the screen and the computing power with a slot into which you pop your phone. All you need now is a frame and a couple of lenses, and you’re off into a virtual world. You can get a cardboard one for a tenner. They’re amazing. We all had a go. First, I went up Mount Everest. Then I put my mother into a shark tank. My wife went on a rollercoaster.

Friday

Hugo Rifkind

In defence of 2016

This is going to be a positive, optimistic column. I promise. Because, look, let’s be honest, I’ve been a bit moany this year, haven’t I? Which may, I suspect, have been a bit misleading. Read me here, or indeed anywhere, and I suspect you could come away thinking I’ve spent the last 12 months, or at least the last six, lying awake, staring at my expensive north London Farrow & Ball ceiling, weeping sad, shuddering, self-indulgent tears at a world moving beyond my ken. I know, I know. I do go on. Whereas actually, it hasn’t really been like that.

Thursday

Hugo Rifkind

How to put a positive spin on the bizarre events of this year

This is going to be a positive, optimistic column. I promise. Because, look, let’s be honest, I’ve been a bit moany this year, haven’t I? Which may, I suspect, have been a bit misleading. Read me here, or indeed anywhere, and I suspect you could come away thinking I’ve spent the last 12 months, or at least the last six, lying awake, staring at my expensive north London Farrow & Ball ceiling, weeping sad, shuddering, self-indulgent tears at a world moving beyond my ken. I know, I know. I do go on. Whereas actually, it hasn’t really been like that.

Thursday

Hugo Rifkind

The pick-up artists who seduced a country

Many years ago, when I was a mere slip of a features journalist, I spent a weekend learning how to be a pick-up artist. Amazing. You assume it won’t work, that sort of thing, but it totally did. Towards the end of the second night, having not said an unscripted word in about half an hour, I found myself in the VIP room of a London nightclub, being gazed at in rapt adoration by a wildly attractive twentysomething blonde. Seriously, people don’t normally look at me like that. It was special. And then I ran away, terrified, because I had a girlfriend. My guide through all this was a man called Neil Strauss, author of a book called The Game.

Thursday

Hugo Rifkind

Let’s shut out this angry, unrepresentative mob

If you’re aiming to refute the suggestion that you can’t comprehend the difference between mob rule and the rule of law, then I suspect it’s probably a bad idea to raise a mob and lead it marching on a law court. Just my little hunch. Yet here come Nigel Farage and his piggybank Arron (Piggy) Banks with a plan to do just that. When the Supreme Court meets next month, the chaps behind Leave.EU aim to lead a march of 100,000 people to Parliament Square, to remind the chaps in wigs what Britain jolly well voted for. As if that had anything to do with anything at all. So far, criticism of the High Court judgment — which the Supreme Court will affirm or overrule — has come in three distinct varieties. We have had the valid, the dim and the frankly sinister.

Sunday

Hugo Rifkind

Brexit has ruined my case against Scottish independence

I can feel my views on Scottish independence changing. Not enough to write a column about it, perhaps, but enough to sneak in a mention here. Scotland voted to stay in the EU, and England didn’t, and this somehow changes everything. People who argue that Scotland also voted to stay in the UK, and so should lump it, miss that point, probably on purpose. Every aspect of Scotland’s settlement with the wider UK, from devolution to the Barnett formula, accepts that the effect of straightforward majority UK rule needs to be mitigated for the Union to survive. Brexit is a deviation from this. Independence still seems like a bad idea. Economically, I’m pretty sure, it would be an even madder act of folly than it would have been last time.

Thursday

Hugo Rifkind

Free speech and the right not to bake a cake

Let us consider the case of the Ashers family bakery in Belfast which, in 2014, refused to make a cake. Or as some would have it, a ‘gay cake’, although that’s obviously ridiculous because all cakes are quite gay. This one, though, was requested by Gareth Lee, a local gay rights activist, who wanted it to have a picture of Bert and Ernie from Sesame Street on it, under the slogan ‘SUPPORT GAY MARRIAGE’, as the centrepiece of an event organised to do just that. On the basis that they were devout Christians, however, the family running this family bakery refused. And so, sore affronted, Lee sued.

Thursday

Hugo Rifkind

Is that a bomb in your pocket? Or a spy? Or both?

Remember how much fun it used to be getting a new phone? I think of a friend a few years ago who was getting his first iPhone. He’d been on a waiting list, and he found out it was coming in on a Saturday when his newish girlfriend was coming to stay. She’d want to spend the weekend having wild and inventive twenty-something sex, he realised with a sinking heart, and perhaps going to the local farmers’ market. Whereas he’d want to spend it playing with his new iPhone. So he told her he was sick, and she accused him of having an affair. Which in a way I suppose he was. It’s not like that now. You get a new phone and it’s basically the same as your old phone, albeit perhaps half a millimetre thinner. Dullsville.

Wednesday

Hugo Rifkind

Is that a bomb in your pocket? Or a Russian spy? Or both?

This is an extract from Hugo Rifkind's column in the new issue of The Spectator, out tomorrow. Remember how much fun it used to be getting a new phone? I think of a friend a few years ago who was getting his first iPhone. He’d been on a waiting list, and he found out it was coming in on a Saturday when his newish girlfriend was coming to stay. She’d want to spend the weekend having wild and inventive twentysomething sex, he realised with a sinking heart, and perhaps going to the local farmers’ market. Whereas he’d want to spend it playing with his new iPhone. So he told her he was sick, and she accused him of having an affair. Which in a way I suppose he was. It’s not like that now.

Sunday

Hugo Rifkind

Theresa May’s love of class politics shows she’s no heir to Blair

One of the professional drawbacks of coming from Scotland and then moving to London is that I don’t really know an awful lot about England. True, I spent a few years in East Anglia on my way south, but it was a particular part of East Anglia that possibly has rather more dreaming Gothic spires, rusted bicycles and robotics labs than the norm, so I’m not sure it was wholly representative. Still, I know the cities. I have spent enough time in Birmingham, Manchester, Newcastle, Nottingham and Sheffield, say, to know that they are not so terribly different from Glasgow, Aberdeen, Inverness or even the bits of Edinburgh without the cobbles.

Thursday

Hugo Rifkind

We know who Theresa May is against. But who is she for?

One of the professional drawbacks of coming from Scotland and then moving to London is that I don’t really know an awful lot about England. True, I spent a few years in East Anglia on my way south, but it was a particular part of East Anglia that possibly has rather more dreaming Gothic spires, rusted bicycles and robotics labs than the norm, so I’m not sure it was wholly representative. Still, I know the cities. I have spent enough time in Birmingham, Manchester, Newcastle, Nottingham and Sheffield, say, to know that they are not so terribly different from Glasgow, Aberdeen, Inverness or even the bits of Edinburgh without the cobbles.

Thursday

Hugo Rifkind

In a Birmingham jail, I found the point of Michael Gove

I went to prison last week, in Birmingham. Early start, off on a train from Euston. It was my kids’ first day back at school, as well, so I called them just before I went through the gates. ‘Daddy’s in prison?’ said my seven-year-old, incredulously. ‘Listen,’ I said to my wife. ‘She’s not allowed to turn up in her classroom and tell everybody that her daddy’s in prison.