t our village fete, the local Conservatives always have a
stall with a demanding quiz on it. About 50 old photographs of politicians
are pinned to a board, and you have to identify them from a list provided. Some are definitely difficult — could you manage Lord Reading, for example, or Hugh Dalton? Last Saturday, the rain splodging the pictures made it harder still. I had particular problems with a picture of a group of thin young men in morning dress. Eventually I worked them out one by one — Norman Lamont, Leon Brittan, John Selwyn Gummer and, next to one another, Kenneth Clarke and Michael Howard. How much, one wonders, does this old Cambridge pairing have to do with the extraordinary mess the Tories got themselves into about what they should be doing in the European Parliament, where the supposedly Eurosceptic Mr Howard was insisting that all his MEPs must sign up to the unqualified euro-integrationism of the European People's party? Last week, Mr Howard was raging against his rebels, notably Daniel Hannan and Theresa Villiers, and threatening to expel them; but I gather from Kentish grassroots that he received a shock on Friday when he invited 90 or so of them from his own constituency into his house. The leader was shaken by their detailed knowledge and fierce feelings on the subject. This Monday he announced that the Tory MEPs will now be part of a Eurosceptic body called the European Democratic Group. It will still, absurdly, be allied to the EPP, but at least it will not have to subscribe to its creed. Is it gradually dawning on the Tory leadership that its party is now Eurosceptic from top to bottom, and should start thinking seriously what this means? Or will old CUCA ties still bind the potential Leviathan?
The arrival of Sheikh Yusuf al-Qaradawi in England was greeted reverentially by BBC television news, which explained to us how moderate was his sermon in Regent's Park mosque. Naturally, the BBC did not explain that his moderation was tactical, and did not mention his website Islam Online, which debates questions like whether homosexuals should be thrown off high cliffs or given 100 lashes. The BBC did acknowledge that he supported suicide bombing, but only against Israelis, so that, it implied, was all right. Al-Qaradawi has also rejected all inter-faith dialogue with Judaism, preferring 'the language of the
sword and force'. Of his published remarks, the most chilling was his reason why, in his view. all Jews, even opponents of Zionism, were legitimate targets. This was 'because Islam says that the majority prevails on all and the rare has no rule'. If Islam really teaches that the rare has no rule, there could scarcely be a more succinct credo of intolerance, and we are in for no end of trouble. The BBC gabbled nervously that al-Qaradavvi is 'hugely respected' among Muslims. Consider the horrifying possibility that, for once, the Corporation is right.
Here are some words and phrases which, when you read them, signal impending boredom: 'ring-fencing resources', 'bench-marking', 'level playing field', 'world music', last-tracking', 'onestop shop'. 'stakeholder', 'diversity', 'Charter renewal,' Patricia Hewitt'.
On my latest telephone bill, I noticed an item saying that I had made a call, on my computer line, to Sao Tome. The charge for this call, which took nearly eight minutes, was £9.102. Sao Tome is a small island off the western coast of Africa, and I am pretty confident that neither I nor any member of my family has ever rung it. So I telephoned BT. Gary, who answered, said 'Oh, yes. that's Sao Tome' (he pronounced it as in 'weighty tome.). He explained that this was a scam in which clever crooks somehow use a modem to rob people. 'This is unacceptable,' Gary went on, 'and therefore we do not pass on the money, but give it to charity instead.' Well, that was very nice, but wouldn't it really be better for BT customers. I asked, if we didn't have to pay money at all for services run by criminals which we never knowingly used? Gary said, 'I can see where you're coming from', but confirmed that I must still pay the Sao Tome bit of my bill. If! was not satisfied, he added, I should ring the Independent Committee for the Supervision of Standards of Telephone Information Services. On the six times that I have tried, this body has been engaged.
professor John Vincent, my indefatigable 1 but laconic correspondent, brings me back to the subject of the suffragette Emily Davison. who died after throwing herself under the King's horse at the Derby in 1913. He writes. 'After Emily Davison's death, a return ticket to London was found in her purse. Did she fall, or was she pushed? In his Short Book on Davison (see The Spectator's Notes, 3 July), Claudia FitzHerbert says that Davison bought a return ticket because it was cheaper than a single, but I find that under crossquestioning he does not maintain this
position, saying, 'I er. . made it up.' FitzHerbert argues that the line for Davison was 'between intending to die and being prepared to die if that's how things fell out', so she did not know, when she bought the ticket, that she would not be coming back.
It is well known, of course, that a cause needs a martyr. I gather that this need has now achieved a semi-statutory form. If you want speed cameras in your village, apparently, you have to show that there has been a road death because of their absence. Considerable pressure therefore falls on older members of the community to make the supreme sacrifice, so parish meetings on the subject are becoming rather tense.
Many readers kindly responded last season when I asked in my hunting column about the identity and poetical works of W.H.O. He was Will H. Ogilvie, and I have now read his collected sporting verse, published between the wars, lent me by a friend. You could not say that he is a great poet. In fact, he often writes doggerel — or rather, hounderel — but his zest is tremendous. Occasionally his political incorrectness is so extreme that one blushes slightly even as one reads. Here W.H.O. celebrates the hunting scenes witnessed by 'the Old House':
... And many a son new blooded. As proud as a main of cocks, Come home with his young face spattered With the red of an old dog-fox.
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