Sam Leith

‘By the light of the torches, we saw the black Hulk lying out a little way from the mud of the shore, like a wicked Noah’s ark. Cribbed and barred and moored by massive rusty chains, the prison-ship seemed in my young eyes to be ironed like the prisoners. We saw the boat go alongside, and we saw him taken up the side and disappear. Then, the ends of the torches were flung hissing into the water, and went out, as if it were all over with him.’ It is with a pleasurable shudder that most of us will remember Charles Dickens’s description, in Great Expectations, of the wicked Noah’s ark of a prison hulk moored in the Thames.

When I look back over my life, a decade or two from now, when I finally succumb to the strontium smog, I’ll at least be able to pinpoint the moment when I first knew human civilisation was doomed. Ah yes, I’ll think, as I hear scavengers scuttling towards my body across the trashscape, grunting and hooting for meat: that was the moment. That Friday evening, way back in the middle of 2023, when I was spooning out the usual overcooked pasta for the usual undercooked children and I asked them what they’d been up to.  'We found this hilarious thing on YouTube,' my oldest said. 'It was, like, this AI-generated video of Boris Johnson eating raw onions.' Was, like, what? 'Yes,' chipped in the second oldest. 'WHOLE raw onions. It’s hilarious!

I’ve tried to stay out of the trans-rights conversation, honestly I have. There are a number of reasons for this, and not all of them are laziness and cowardice. The main thing is that – though it bears on some important points of principle – it directly affects a relatively tiny proportion of the population and it already gets more coverage than almost any other issue up to and including a major European war.   Gee whiz, holding that centrist line gets harder And for most of the people who get involved in this conversation as journalists, commentators and activists, it rapidly becomes a full-time job. There are a lot of people more willing, and better qualified, to do that job.

If you visited the British Museum’s new exhibition China’s Hidden Century a fortnight ago, you’d have seen a substantial section on the revolutionary woman poet Qiu Jin, with substantial extracts from her poems in Chinese and English displayed in a giant projection. What you might not have noticed was that the translator was not credited anywhere in the physical exhibition. But Yilin Wang, whose translations of those poems appeared in the exhibition, did.  Indeed, Ms Wang, who has won awards for her poetry and has an extensive record as a translator, was more dismayed than that. Not only was she not credited: she hadn’t even been consulted by the British Museum about their use of her work. She was rightly angry.

At the end of the 1920s, Erich Maria Remarque’s novel Im Westen nichts Neues appeared in English as All Quiet On The Western Front. For its readership in this country a devastating, grinding war against an enemy they had been encouraged to think of as bestial and inhuman huns was in recent memory. Here was a book that told how the war had been for those huns in the opposing trenches; that showed it wasn’t all that different for them at all. Nobody, as far as I know, even as our cities were filled with broken, disfigured, disabled and traumatised veterans, attempted to suppress Remarque’s book on the grounds that it encouraged sympathy for Germans. In fact, the only people who tried to suppress it were the Nazis.

Boris Johnson has always been an enthusiastic proponent of the long unfashionable 'great man' theory of history. As he argued in his short biography of Winston Churchill, Churchill was a living refutation of the notion that great men and women are just 'meretricious bubbles on the vast tides of social history', a 'withering retort to all that malarkey. He, and he alone, made the difference'. Boris’s own downfall is a magnificent demonstration – though perhaps not of the sort he would have hoped for – that he was onto something. Character does make a difference. It wasn’t 'events, dear boy, events' that did for him – though heaven knows he was rocked by a few of those.