Spectator, September 2, 2006
Gstaad
On 4 July 1981, The Spectator published the following letter:
Sir: I must take vigorous exception to Mr von Hoffman’s revolting turn of phrase (20 June) when he dealt with the Israeli premier Mr Begin, to wit that the man was a ‘homicidal dwarf’. This is an entirely unjustifiable, gratuitous, discriminatory and unacceptable slur upon dwarves who by and large do not blow up hotels, hang British army sergeants, massacre 200 Arabs at Deir Yassin, or bomb other people’s power stations. Nigel Ash, British Board of Diminutives, Orde Hall Street, London WC1Ah, but those were the ‘bad’ old days, before PC reduced most of us to writing Aunt Agatha-like epistles to the village vicar. Never mind. PC is here to stay. For example, in the land of the depraved, federal policy bans ethnic or religious profiling, so countless hours are spent patting down elderly women in wheelchairs, toddlers with dummies, even former US vice-presidents. When my mother-in-law was still alive three years ago, she was almost strip-searched while in a wheelchair by an aggressive woman at Kennedy airport. She was 90 years old at the time, extremely well dressed and well spoken. When my son protested, he was threatened with arrest. Obviously she did pose a threat. That of teaching the locals some manners.
Over in merry old England, people on the internet celebrate the violent deaths of British and American soldiers despite a strict new law aimed at curtailing violent speech. In fact, the Terrorism Act 2006, which makes it a crime to glorify or encourage political violence, is ignored by certain Brits with names such as Mohammad al-Massari and his website. The trouble is that the law is so broadly drawn that it is totally vague, which is what was intended in the first place. Let’s not be accused of being politically incorrect, is the law’s real message. Go figure, as they say in Brooklyn.
Personally, I cannot even begin to think about crossing the Atlantic without reading matter. I know, I know, the powers that be are relaxing the Draconian laws following the 10 August threat, but what happens if there’s some idiot on the day I fly and I am forced to look at movies for eight hours. It is enough to make me stay away. Flying private is an expensive joy in Europe, but crossing the pond is another matter altogether.
Am I complaining too much? Obviously, but I am, after all, a grumpy old man now. Every generation thinks the one that comes after it is degenerate, but in my case I have to be right. Complainers’ societies usually perished after dire warnings. Grumpy old men (and women) turn out to be prophetic. Which brings me to the Polish threat. As everyone knows, the Poles are among the bravest people anywhere, and the fact they are swamping Britain is the best news since June 1940. (Sorry, this is politically incorrect. Since May 1945.) Nobody in Britain wants to do the things the Poles and other eastern Europeans are willing to do. In America ditto, so the Yanks hire illegal aliens. In Britain most people are illegals, except that the Poles are willing to work.
Today’s youth rely on government action, which makes Darwin and Malthus turn in their graves. Even as recently as when I was a child, survival was the only issue for most men and women. Now their problem is identity theft and getting the right Gooseberry, whatever that is. The other day I rang the rock star Roger Taylor, who kindly gave me the name of a captain, as my own midget captain is having illusions that he’s Errol Flynn and has filled my boat with friends of his of the female persuasion.
I have nothing against females on board, but not while I’m absent. So Roger tried to give me the new captain’s number but was unable to because it was in his mobile telephone. ‘I’ll text you the number,’ said Roger. ‘But I don’t know how to receive text messages,’ said I. He started to laugh. ‘I’m not so good at it either, but I’ve got a couple of people next to me helping...’
There you have it. Roger Taylor is much younger than I am, but even youngsters like him are having problems with Progress. Some progress. No one knows how to add or subtract any longer, and forget about division. The pocket calculator has eliminated the need for such complex mental exertions.
Otherwise, everything is hunky-dory. I’m off to Greece to celebrate the Greek Queen’s 60th birthday, and then to Monte Carlo to see if anything’s left of my beautiful sailing boat.