Rod Liddle

Je suis Charlie indeed. This is the problem with placards — there is rarely enough room to fit in the caveats, the qualifying clauses and the necessary evasions. I suppose you could write them on the back of the placard, one after the other, in biro. Or write in brackets and in much smaller letters, directly below ‘Je suis Charlie’: ‘Jusqu’a un certain point, Lord Copper.’ Then you can pop your biro into your lapel as a moving symbol of freedom of speech. Only a few of the British mainstream national newspapers felt it appropriate to reproduce the front cover of the latest, post-murder, edition of Charlie Hebdo, which shows the Prophet Mohammed (PBUH, natch) saying: all is forgiven.

Je suis Charlie indeed. This is the problem with placards — there is rarely enough room to fit in the caveats, the qualifying clauses and the necessary evasions. I suppose you could write them on the back of the placard, one after the other, in biro. Or write in brackets and in much smaller letters, directly below ‘Je suis Charlie’: ‘Jusqu’a un certain point, Lord Copper.’ Then you can pop your biro into your lapel as a moving symbol of freedom of speech. Only a few of the British mainstream -national newspapers felt it appropriate to reproduce the front cover of the latest, post-murder, edition of Charlie Hebdo, which shows the -Prophet Mohammed (PBUH, natch) saying: all is forgiven.

A new name to help us welcome in the new year: Jean Hatchet. A name which is almost certainly too good to be true for a perpetually infuriated radical feminist — much as, say, Roz Termagant or Betty Hitler would be. It is a pseudonym, apparently. Ms Hatchet — I assume that is the title she would prefer, although Mx is catching on quite quickly — is the woman behind the petitions to prevent the footballer and convicted rapist Ched Evans from earning a living from his trade. The first petition was got up when Evans began training with his former club, Sheffield United — who quickly washed their hands of him as a consequence of the publicity. There was a sort of furore.

A glittering cast list, delicious food and spectacular entertainment — I just wish you could have been there. But tickets were at a premium for The Spectator’s prestigious Utter Arse of the Year awards ceremony held, as ever, in the council chamber at Tower Hamlets. The meal, prepared by the exciting left-wing lesbian cook Jack Monroe, consisted of her famous kale pesto pasta on a bed of shredded back copies of the Guardian. As we munched away, a troop of locally sourced Bangladeshi mime artists enacted the setting up of an east London caliphate and — to the delight of the audience — silently decapitated several infidels sitting near the stage.

More excellent news for Team UK. Apparently we are now the second fattest people in Europe - and are rapidly catching up on the humongous, goulash-obsessed Hungarians, who currently hold the coveted number one spot. However – the news gets better. The survey was undertaken before Christmas Day: the morbidly obese Magyars tend to eat low-cal fish for their seasonal dinner, whereas we consume vast amounts of turkey, potatoes roasted in goose fat, steamed puddings, brandy butter, orange or mint flavoured Matchmakers and Terry’s Chocolate Orange (counts as one of your five a day, I think). So we may well have caught up already.

Should enormously fat women be allowed into nightclubs? The obvious answer is 'no, of course not, are you out of your f****** mind?' But door policies which discriminate against the morbidly obese can undoubtedly be hurtful. Amy Pitcher and an un-named friend were denied entry to a club in Ashford, Kent; the bouncer didn’t actually say 'it’s because you’re both the size of one of Saturn’s moons – and I mean Titan, not Methas'. But Amy guessed that was the reason, because she is so large she exerts a gravitational pull on small every day items. Annoyingly, the nightclub has since apologised, as everybody has to do these days.

Were you aware that the famous actor Andy Garcia was born with a foetus growing out of his left shoulder? It was removed from him when he was a toddler. I had not known this and I am unhappy that some sort of conspiracy, some wall of silence, was constructed to keep this news from the paying public. I watched The Untouchables in blissful ignorance of the fact; had I known I would have picketed the cinema. Come clean about the dead foetus, Garcia! I am aware of the foetus business now only because I stumbled across an excellent website entitled ‘25 Celebrities With Hideous Physical Deformities’, and Garcia was there at number six.

It’s a good name, Roger Bird, isn’t it? The story, or non-story, develops apace. Read Steerpike here for the details of the text messages sent by Natasha Bolter to Mr Bird and which suggest to me a degree of, um, complicity, y’know? Newsnight carried it as their second story last night: Yoda was wreathed in sanctimony, talking about the terribly difficult time the poor woman must be enduring - and then they had an exclusive interview with Bolter, done by Wes Mantooth, or someone. Trouble is Wes recorded the interview before they knew the details of the text messages and Yoda mentioned only the least incriminating ones. Hey ho.

Thoroughly cheering news emerged this week that left-handed people are likely to earn between 10 and 12 per cent less than their right-handed colleagues. (So 11 per cent less, then). Good. I have never cared for left-handed people, considering them arrogant and possessed of unsavoury personal habits — and were I an employer I would not give jobs to any of them. I would let them moulder on benefits, and laugh and point as I passed them waiting at the bus stop on their way to the dole office. Awful people. The most famous left-handers from history were Gerald Ford, Fidel Castro, the spoon-bending self-publicist Uri Geller and the controversially sexist Victorian Jack the Ripper. I think that tells you all you need to know.

I wonder how long it will be before we actually crawl back into the womb? The average mental age of our population stands at about four. A decade or so back it was surely higher — maybe six or seven, I would guess. But we have regressed with great rapidity, as if we were characters in a Philip K. Dick short story, hurtling backwards towards zero. One day soon we will have a national nappy shortage. My wife made me watch part of a programme called The X Factor last Sunday. She said she wanted to watch this egregious shit because she was ‘tired’ and ‘there’s nothing else on’. I’m 90 per cent certain there was football on some channel somewhere, but I didn’t press the point.

The news is always grim, isn’t it? Doom and gloom everywhere. And even the news which appears to be good has a dark cloud hovering behind it. For example, we frequently hear reports of British-born jihadis being killed in Syria, either by blowing themselves up in the familiar, traditional manner or being bombed by the Americans. I usually break out some really good white wine and get the neighbours over for a bit of a knees-up whenever this happens — we exult, and sing songs for a while, our cares forgotten. But I have just read that the death rate for our lads in the Islamic State is one every three weeks. That’s pathetic, hugely dispiriting. It will take ages to finish them off, no matter how many more we encourage to go.