Matthew Parris

There can be few foreign cities where the Spectator, Times and Telegraph are more widely read than Cape Town. In a queue where I waited before coming home this week, readers volunteered to me – a columnist whom they recognised – their thoughts about these journals, their contents and their columnists. I love Cape Town but it’s not Africa. Along with Nairobi it’s perhaps the African city where white English people could now most easily imagine settling or retiring; but, though visits are always pleasant, I can never quite escape a nagging feeling that something’s not quite right about this lively, wealthy, cultured city in its breathtaking setting – and I’m not just talking about the appalling black slums you pass as you drive to or from the airport.

Winston Churchill had a name for it. ‘Happy thoughts’ was his description of policy proposals that gave the proposer a warm feeling but were unfeasible, unaffordable or for other reasons no more than desiderata. Our new prime minister offers a master-class in this method of spreading happiness. And foremost among Andy Burnham’s now almost daily exercise in sharing his desiderata are his suggestions – surely too vague to be proposals – for a new system of universal social care for the elderly, free at the point of use. To the extent that the idea has any discernible shape at all, it seems that a sister-body to the National Health Service might be set up to meet and administer this massive new entitlement.

What has been remarkable about Henry Nowak’s case was not the story itself, tragic though it is, but the potency of it to spark public anxiety. The anxiety is born of an in-built and nascent popular resistance to the idea that certain groups, the victims of unconscious bias, need special consideration in order to counteract that potential disadvantage. The expression ‘two-tier’ has in the Nowak case been applied to policing, but the principle is more general, and lies behind (for instance) campaigns to nudge public attitudes (and sometimes public policy) towards the disabled, older jobseekers, plus a ‘group’ which in fact comprises half of us: women. You can call it positive discrimination.

The BBC’s tracking-down of Kardo Ranya as a people-smuggling mastermind is a triumph of investigative journalism. But anyone who thinks this will seriously help ‘smash the gangs’ is deluded. As the drugs trade illustrates, where there is demand there will be supply. What’s to be done? Imagine you were the party leader of a mainstream British political party. Daydreaming, you see a vision – pouffe! A bang and a flash, and there stands the Fairy Queen herself. ‘What, oh party leader,’ she demands, ‘is your heart’s desire?’ Your reply is unhesitating but – you suppose – hopeless. ‘A winning strategy for the next general election,’ you wail. ‘I ask only for that.

Can there be any thinking person who has passed a lorry filled with live animals peering out through the slats on their way to slaughter, without a momentary shudder? How many of us would take an opportunity to inspect what happens there? Be honest: you recoil from the thought. ‘Slaughterhouse’. So unpleasant we frenchify it as ‘abattoir’. Hunting leaves me cold yet has an honesty about it: you see and choose your prey, and kill it yourself: morally a million miles from the systematic industrial slaughter of creatures we never look in the eye, couldn’t bear to see killed, and so turn away, pay others to do the killing, and deny our own agency. There are things we’d rather not think about. Take note of them. They’re the first signs of rejection.

A friend met Mary Wilson on the Isles of Scilly, where she and her husband, Harold, had a home. She confided in him that Harold, now in the grip of senile dementia, was slipping away from her; and she felt the lonelier because in the eyes of the world his achievements as prime minister were slipping away as well. My friend rehearsed with her the list: the Open University, etc. Then he added this: there is a kind of achievement in high office which by its very nature is unlikely to burn brightly in the world’s imagination after a leader has gone, but is no less luminous for being forgotten. I mean (he said) declining to do something foolish. On behalf of our country (he said), your husband politely declined Washington’s invitation to join the Vietnam war.

Is this Britain, 2026, or Spain, 1478? Our era begins to feel horribly like the latter. So, as the flames of the Epstein Inquisition burn higher, let me get my general confession into the public domain before the guardians of public morality come for me. Here begins my deposition. I, Matthew Francis Parris, do solemnly confess that I know slightly and have been on mostly friendly terms with Peter Mandelson; and continue to believe him to have been a far-sighted force in the creation of a sane and successful Labour government such as we so notably lack now.

The Catholic Church has always been remarkably relaxed about sin. It becomes distinctly jumpy, however, when it encounters any challenge to the Church’s designation of what is sinful. Human beings (it suspects) are and always will be sinners. The Church has no problem in dealing with sinners: they should confess. Absolution may be available, dispensed by a priesthood who have privileged access to the Almighty, and can intercede. It isn’t really the commission of a sin that worries the Church. It’s the rejection of a doctrine ‘We will tell you what’s unclean in the eyes of God. We also offer a laundry service to which we hold the monopoly.’ To a cynic it might occur that this a shrewd way of drumming up trade.

In the pantheon of South America’s great hotels, the Gran Hotel Bolivar’s place is assured. Stand anywhere in the Plaza San Martin, one of Lima’s historic central squares, and the proud art deco 1924 building – all 300 rooms and five storeys of it – glistens dazzling white over the promenaders, tourists and hawkers below. These days it feels almost marooned, an island of elegant, old-fashioned opulence set in a sea of fuming traffic. The rich and sophisticated have deserted the old part of town for the cool condominiums and plate glass of modern Miraflores, but Miraflores has no memory. The Bolivar – every stone, every pane of stained glass, every monogrammed brass doorknob, even the black Model T Ford standing beside the reception desks – remembers its glory days.