Rod Liddle

Ah, hell, it’s the curse of Liddle. No sooner have I sat down and written a stirring defence of the Daily Mail columnist Jan Moir, who had been vilified for suggesting there was something “sleazy” about the death of Stephen Gateley, than the bloody woman apologises. Or, at least, sort of apologises. I don’t see why she should have even genuflected in the general direction of an apology; her article was not homophobic. I suppose she could have watched her back by putting in some qualifying adjectives here or there – but then, hell, I’m hardly one to lecture on that issue. Anyway, my piece is in this week’s Spectator.

How will you be celebrating the birth of Guru Nanak this year? I thought we might get together for a party, bring a bottle, play a few games. The founder of the Sikh religion’s birthday is celebrated in November, although he was actually born in April: that’s just one of the mystifying things about religion, I suppose. Nanak seems a decent old cove; he once had a devotee pricked by a rose bush when he had spent too much time visiting prostitutes and explained to the miscreant that really the appropriate punishment would have been a stake through the heart, but he was a merciful mofo so he let him off with the rose bush thing. The children of Waltham Forest (the council borough, I mean.

People are getting themselves worked up into a terrible lather over the BNP’s appearance on BBC Question Time next week. Even in this neck of the woods, Melanie Phillips has criticized the Conservative Party for having selected Baroness Warsi to sit alongside fat Nick on the panel. Her argument, briefly put, is that it would have been better to put up a white working class Tory who has something in common with those people likely to vote BNP, rather than the representative of a community which will probably not do so. Well, sure, up to a point. But it is odd to see Mel captured by this liberal chattering class terror, which has succeeded in building up Nick Griffin’s appearance next week into one of the television events of the year - when it should be no such thing.

During the feisty game between Swindon and Millwall on Saturday, there was a bit of a bust up between Swindon’s Kevin Amankwaah and Millwall’s veteran striker, Neil “Bomber” Harris. I cannot recall seeing Harris so infuriated in ten years of watching him play. Afterwards, all became clear. Harris fought a long and well-reported battle against testicular cancer several years ago. He told a local newspaper that Amankwaah had sneered at him because of this, making a reference to the fact he possessed only one testicle. Amankwaah, by way of response, lied – he denied saying any such thing. But something happened at Swindon; maybe Amankwaah’s colleagues rounded on him.

I’ve been so tied up with my financial advisers, getting my bid together for the Dartford river crossing (my plan is to prevent people from Essex visiting Kent, because I don’t like them), that I missed this letter from one of the country’s more thoughtful and free thinking Labour MPs, Denis MacShane. It’s been causing a minor stir in blogsville, not least at Aaronovitchwatch. I know that many of you resent Mr MacShane because of his wish for us all to speak German and live in a fascistic European super state led by Tony Blair, but let’s leave that to one side for a moment. His letter, to the Grauniad, was about the problem of violent, feral youths and street crime etc.

It is wonderful news that both golf and rugby sevens have been accepted as Olympic sports. It gives us the chance of winning many more medals than if the games were simply a test of brute strength, speed, agility or skill. Now the authorities have accepted that the games should also reward GDP, raw levels of disposable income per head of population and the ability to wear pastel-shaded wool and acrylic leisure-wear without appearing unduly embarrassed. Golf in the Olympics! That should sort out the bloody Africans. Mauritania and Chad aren’t going to be in the running for any of those medals, are they?

Another year of bitter disappointment - I have once again failed to win the Nobel Prize for Peace. My pitch – that I deserve to win it because I am not George W Bush – had a lot going for it, I thought. But instead the honour went to Barack Obama, whose pitch was identical. Neither of us – Barack or me – have done anything whatsoever to enhance world peace, aside from not being George. I assume they gave it to Barack instead of me because he is black: fair enough, I can see the point of that. Still, I think I came closer than usual in the running – the judges at least accepted my thesis and agreed with it. This has not always been the case.

Scouring the Sunday newspapers for any vestige of sentience, I find none whatsoever - but instead chance upon this whining, chippy, neo-Socialist drivel from Rod Liddle in the Sunday Times blaming the bankers for the economic mess from which, it’s said, we are emerging. (Incidentally, linking to oneself in a blog is narcissism on an inter-planetary scale, isn’t it? Even if you make a joke about it. It’s like masturbating to a signed of photo of oneself. While the wife is out down the shops, obviously.) The central point – that nothing seems to have been learned – holds true, though I reckon. Much as it does about that other scandal which captivated us for a while, the MPs expenses: nothing has changed.