The Questing Vole A s we go to war, there is
one important figure from whom we have yet to hear: Lord Ashdown of Norton-subHamdon; statesman, soldier, lover — a politician who seems to have sprung from the very pages of a Wilbur Smith novel. No modern war or intervention is complete without footage of our Paddy squinting manfully into the sun and offering fine, high-sounding words to encourage our troops. But this new war puts him in a cleft stick. His successor as Lib-Dem leader, Charlie Kennedy, is a fervent opponent of military action against Saddam. Paddy has all-too-conspicuously declined to lend his sinew to roly-poly Mr Kennedy's cause; but he'd look like a terrible stirrer if he came out for war. Accordingly, when I contacted his spokesman, I was told, 'He is not making any public statements on this. He has a mandate as High Representative in Bosnia. But does his mandate forbid him from speaking out? 'He's not forbidden. But he doesn't want to get himself involved in this.
An English stockbroker working in Paris is preparing to take the French police to court for infringing his human rights. You'd think a country whose traditions of dissent have countenanced the use of guillotines and flying paving stones as instruments of protest wouldn't have a problem with A4 paper — but last month Tim Gittos was clapped in irons for having the temerity to hand out leaflets from his bicycle on the way to work. The occasion was Robert Mugabe's visit to Paris to receive the glad hand of amity from President Chirac. Mr Gittos is not your obvious anarchist troublemaker; and his arrest, out of sight of the television cameras, received no publicity.
Iwas watching the television news the night before, and I saw he was staying in the Plaza Athenee, which happens to be on my way to work,' says Mr Gittos. 'I thought it wouldn't be right not to do something. I printed out a few facts and figures from Amnesty International's website and put on it: "This is who you're protecting. I hope you're proud of yourselves." As I passed the line of policemen outside the hotel. I gave them out. I only had about ten sheets and I had given out three when they arrested me. One of the police said, "You can do that in your own country, but you can't do it here."' Mr Gittos was cuffed, frisked and run down to the cop-shop, where he was
given written notice that he would be charged with the offence of 'distributing leaflets in a forbidden area'. 'I have got a written copy of the law I supposedly broke which lists the various forbidden zones in Paris — and Avenue Montaigne, where I was arrested, is not included. I am still waiting for the French police to summons me to court. If they do not proceed then I will be free to make a legal challenge against them. Initial legal advice is that the police action is in clear violation of Article 10 (Freedom of Expression) of the European Convention of Human Rights.'
George Bush announced this week: The greatest power of freedom is to overcome hatred and violence.' When time allows, I will be contacting the White House's press office to ask after the secondary and tertiary powers of freedom. Can it cure my mouth ulcer — that's what I want to know.
How is the opera-loving renaissance man Michael Portillo filling his days? He has made an unexpected sally into scholarship, contributing a handsome introduction to a new edition of A.L. Rowse's The Expansion of Elizabethan England, reissued by Palgrave to commemorate the 400th anniversary of the old queen's death. 'Rowse wrote at a moment when Britain was proud of its global role, and in an age before political correctness,' writes Mr Portillo feelingly. 'He could describe England's push into Cornwall, Wales and Ireland without pussyfooting. He could use a word like -colonisation" without embarrassment ... without the intervening haze that has been thrown up by late 20thcentury colonial guilt.'
This column touched last week on the question of Robin Cook's ministerial limousine. Was he — as had scurrilously been suggested in print — using his chauffeur-driven wheels to go shopping for posh schmutter in Jermyn Street? We did no more than suggest he might move to rebut this on the record. But blow me: five days later, the consonant-gobbling little probity monkey had resigned from the Cabinet. These were bird-bolts he took for cannon shot. There are those who will say that It Was The Vole What Won It, but vulgar triumphalism is not our way. Mr Cook's resignation, though not wholly unwelcome, was probably a step too far.
On which subject, Robin Cook's letter of resignation was signed off 'Yours sincerely', but the Prime Minister's response — at a time when we are witnessing an unprecedented bull market in sincerity — managed only 'Yours ever'. A footling thing, but it gives the rebels the moral upper hand. Downing Street should run these things past Dear Mary.
With the fearsome might of the Conservative party's electoral machine, apparently, poised to back Lord Dullswater in next week's Lords by-election, we'd all be well advised to look for another candidate. The Vole-approved candidate is the genial Lord Rathcavan. A crossbencher with supporters on all sides of the House, he lists Northern Ireland. the hospitality industry, rural affairs and food safety among the fields of interest in which he proposes to busy himself if elected. Restaurant proprietor Lord Rathcavan, a sometime director of this magazine and of Bushmills distillers, was nevertheless still able to make intelligible his interest in the 'rural environment' at 4.30 p.m. on St Patrick's Day. To vote for him would also be to remedy an injustice. He feels he missed out last time, at least in part, because he only succeeded to his title at the age of 55; so until 1994 he was known to all as plain Hugh O'Neill. 'In the last election,' he says, 'enough people to have seen me through came up afterwards and said, "I wanted to vote for you but I couldn't remember what your bloody name was."' While we're at bashing Johnnie Frenchman, incidentally, I direct without comment web-literate readers to the search engine www.google.com. Type 'french military victories' in as your search term, and press the button marked 'I Feel Lucky'. Result: 'Your search — french military victories — did not match any documents. Did you mean: french military defeats?' Juvenile, I suppose, but c'est la guerre. . . .
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