SIMON HEFFER
Nvhenever I feel psychotically depressed about this country — which, as I contemplate another nine years of Labour rule, is more and more often — I find myself being thankful that I do not have as my head of state President Chirac. I have come to believe that he is the price France pays for having Ravel, Manet, Cheval Blanc, Paris, foie gras and all those gorgeous pouting actresses. At the time of writing, slimy Jacques has not resolved the latest problem facing his country, the kidnapping of two French journalists in Iraq. Their captors have demanded that France drop the law forbidding the wearing of religious symbols in schools: they want girls to be able to wear la voile to preserve their modesty. The law is just another example of Chirac's moral cowardice, and his attempt to deal with the fears many of his fellow countrymen have about Muslims by offending absolutely everyone. He claims that as the Fifth Republic has secularism enshrined in its principles, children should not advertise their faith. Here, it would cause an outrage if such a law were passed, and quite right too. I am amazed at the restraint of the French who, being mostly Christian, have to see their majority culture driven underground so that Chirac can have a go at the Muslims. The dwarf Sarkozy, a nasty little bugger, clearly, but also fearsomely effective, has Chirac in his sights. I hope for France's sake he pulls the trigger at the right moment.
Tike President Chirac, but for different rea, sons. I view all religions with equal scepticism. However, more and more journalists, in their determination to be politically correct, suck up to certain creeds while being pretty offhand with others. As in France, Christianity gets consistently rough treatment, and Judaism is often alluded to in terms that would have warmed the heart of Julius Streicher. Yet perhaps because of what the Ayatollah wanted to do to Mr Salman Rushdie, or as part of our now virulent anti-Americanism, no Chiracstyle liberties are taken with Islam here. I approve of this respect for a great religion and culture, but wish it applied more widely. For example, every time a town with a big mosque and a large phalanx of mullahs is mentioned it is, inevitably, 'the holy city of. . . I am sure such places are holy. But why are our cathedral towns not given equal reverence? When the BBC reports a jam on the M2, could some reference not be made to 'the holy city of Canterbury'? To be so casual about our own shrines confirms the Muslim view that we are in such an advanced state of decadence that to
blow us all up, as a prelude to converting England to Islam, would be a positive act of kindness.
No doubt such journalistic solecisms will 1 NI be rooted out by Helen Boaden, who has just been appointed head of BBC news. Ms Boaden moves over (as press releases so silkily put it) from Radio Four, where she restored the credibility of that network by allowing people who did not write for or read the Guardian to broadcast for it. I hope she will be as radical in her treatment of television news. I find myself simply not believing much that I hear on some broadcasts, especially those on the BBC's News 24, because the people telling it to me are about 11 years old and have a poor grasp of their mother tongue. This last point is not new. I remember when the great Kenneth Kendall, a proper newsreader if ever there was one, laid down his script for the last time, he said his retirement had been forced by the semi-literate quality of much that he was asked to read out. Now 80, Mr Kendall is possibly, even in these enlightened times, too old to be pulled out of retirement to spearhead a campaign to raise standards. However, were Ms Boaden to institute a policy whereby newsreaders were not automatically sent off to front Saga advertisements at the age of 45, I am certain it would prove reassuring to the public.
T t is apparently because we are becoming I less elderly in mind that we are drinking less port. It is (so market researchers say) a wine identified with ageing, peppery, tweedy old Tories. That must be why I like it so much. Having only a few of the Sixty-threes left in the cellar, and being well through the Seventies, my mind has turned recently to buying a few more cases so as not to be caught short in the long and no doubt arduous winter ahead. Since I keep reading how demand for port has slumped, I find it hard to understand why what is on sale is still so expensive. The market used to be more responsive: I bought a pile of Eighty-threes during the Lamont Economic Miracle just over a decade ago for an embarrassingly low price, on the grounds that the merchant who had them had hardly sold a bottle for two years. I can only conclude that the port families are like Opec, slashing production whenever there is too much on the market The champagne houses were rumoured to have done this after the disastrous (for them) millennium, but offers still abound, and anyone who pays more than about fib for a good non-vintage bottle is being ripped off. If the port shippers want to improve the popularity of their commodity, they should cut its price. I think I'll keep my credit card in its holster until they bow to the inevitable, and I advise all you other crusty old boozers to do the same.
y wife has only been taken sailing twice in her life, and on both occasions the boat has capsized. The second of these incidents occurred last week in Brittany. Fortunately, no harm was done. However, a public-spirited German happened to be on the quay about 30 yards away when the boat my wife was in turned over, and he proceeded to jump in to help rescue the victims. As they swam to shore, the party noted that the German insisted on taking every item of clothing off before jumping in. An Englishman would certainly have retained his underpants (and probably his socks), and so, I suspect, would all but the most exhibitionist Frenchman. Our brave German landed a long way from his clothes, and proceeded to stroll serenely back to them, stark naked, along a crowded quay without batting the proverbial eyelid. I am unfamiliar with Teutonic customs, but am reliably told that at the slightest provocation the Germans will take all their clothes off even in the most surprising places. I am sure they are not a nation of perverts and flashers. I prefer to think that their mania for public exposure is yet another way they have found for atoning for the regrettable events of 1933-45.
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