Rod Liddle

The pop-up ad I get most frequently these days is David Beckham’s promotional video for the Islamic sandpit of Qatar, in which the smirking tattooed oaf enjoins us to discover such delights as buying some spices in a market and being short-changed in a local shop. Around him is the bling architecture of Doha, which looks like it was designed by his wife. The last scene is a semi-veiled hottie laughing coquettishly with the intellectually impaired former footballer, suggesting to the young men who will be visiting the medieval satrapy for the World Cup that its babes might well be inclined to put out and give you one (if you have bags of cash, designer stubble and ride a motorbike). I assume it was directed by a chap called Asif.

Two lessons learned from the breakfast buffet at the Hilton Hotel, Deansgate, Manchester. First, the plates are no longer minuscule, but pleasingly broad. However, they consist of a smallish bit in the centre and a gently elevated wide rim – the message being: put the food only in the middle. The outer circle is simply decorative, so don’t be uncouth. The second is that you are no longer enjoined to help yourself. There’s a bloke there who does the serving for you. So if you go up and say ‘bacon, please’, he will put a piece of bacon on your plate. One piece. The same with the sausages, the fried eggs, the tomatoes. One of each. Of course, you can request more. You can say: ‘I’d like seven hash browns, please.

I gave up smoking one year ago this week, as part of a series of pitiful capitulations to the forces of coercive conformity. As far as I see it, the path to the grave is lined with compromise after compromise until, at the moment of the final rattle, one has become a travesty, physically and spiritually, of the person one used to be. Not that I would want to overdramatise the whole thing, mind. I more usually tend to present my dis-avowal of smoking as a kind of glorious epiphany. One moment I smoked, the next I didn’t. And in a sense that is true: no doctors were involved, there were no health scares, nor was I nagged to give up by those close to me. I went to bed one evening – at 23.

I am becoming terribly worried about the people of Sunderland with regard to how they will cope in this coming winter. The greatly increased fuel bills will affect all parts of the country, of course – but none more so than the Mackems who, I suspect, will largely die as a consequence. Their particular problem was highlighted by the local Labour MP, Bridget Phillipson, on BBC2’s Politics Live hosted by the excellent Jo Coburn. Ms Phillipson said people in her constituency opened their doors to her wearing their coats and possibly mufflers, because they were trying to reduce their energy bills. The temperature up here has not dropped below about 21°C for the past two months, but these Mackems are apparently already close to hypothermia.

I wonder how many people in the country are bitterly disappointed that Liz Truss pulled out of her exciting one-to-one interview with Nick Robinson? I can think of only two. First, of course, Nick Robinson. Nick was very much looking forward to it. His ideal assignment would be to interview himself for an entire afternoon, but failing that, Liz Truss would do just fine. The other, of course, is Rishi Sunak, who must have been hoping that Liz would dig herself another hole and carry on digging until she emerged somewhere near Maruia Springs, say, in New Zealand’s Southern Alps.

Taking a short break from persecuting Roman Catholic faith schools for ideological reasons, Ofsted has stuck the boot into the Abbey School in Kent. This school, in Faversham, has been given the lowest possible ranking of ‘inadequate’. The report bemoans the fact that pupils are expected to do as they are told, be polite and behave themselves, and describes the atmosphere within the school as ‘oppressive’. By a winning coincidence, Ofsted’s report was published in the very week that the Abbey School reported by far its best ever A-level results. What, Ofsted sees as ‘oppression’, then, is more commonly known as ‘running a school properly’.

I do not doubt that hot weather occasioned by climate change is the primary cause of the many wildfires we have seen in the UK this summer. But I wonder if they have also become more profuse as a consequence of various authorities desperately attempting to make the countryside more ‘accessible’ to people who, in truth, shouldn’t be allowed anywhere near it. The more you encourage the dregs of humanity to visit ‘green spaces’, the more likely it is that they will turn up and ruin them. This is a social class of extremely low intelligence but, concomitantly, a vast gustatory appetite – they are unable to go more than 20 minutes without gnawing or slurping something.

I was intrigued to learn from Tom Daley – that young man who became famous for jumping off a platform into some water – that homophobia is a ‘legacy of colonialism’. The Ugandan President, Yoweri Museveni, begs to differ. He believes that it is homosexuality which is a legacy of colonialism and had been brought to his benighted country by effete whitey – and so he may well think Tom is indulging in the disagreeable act of ‘whitesplaining’. However, it is possible, if not likely, that both Tom and Yoweri are correct – after all, it is difficult to be homophobic if you have around you a complete absence of homosexuals, as I have discovered since moving back to the north-east of England.

During that rather strange summer of 2020 I used the phrase ‘the gentle armed robber George Floyd’ in several articles for various publications, but the phrase was often taken out. I had thought it a mild corrective to the seeming beatification of a man who, while having been wrongly killed, was not, to my mind, quite worthy of the retrospective adoration being poured upon him. Nope, there would be no corrective – not about George. Indeed in that summer of lockdowns, hand sanitiser and existential angst it was pretty much impossible to challenge the programme of Black Lives Matter, full stop.