On the need for a return to hunting with hounds

Since leaving power in ignominy in 2007, Mr Blair's legacy has been debated and analysed, mulled over and picked apart. There are those who contend that his close partnership with George Bush Junior did much to tarnish his reputation, that his limp adherence to the whims of the US President was his downfall and that had he not so readily followed the advice of the oddball Campbell and the 'dodgy dossier' he would be held in higher regard today. I would beg to differ. Iraq was in many ways a lesser error of the Labour years. Mr Blair's administration was responsible for far greater disasters - too numerous to list here. Under his direction the country descended into a pit of economic despair, sexual rapacity and poor tailoring but perhaps his greatest crime, was to unleash a wave of vulgar and very un-British sentimentality across the land.

As the nineties turned into the 'noughties' it seemed that everywhere one went, one was met by otherwise very sensible people 'weeping'. Indeed, frequently, at the slightest provocation, entire segments of society seemed to blub like boarders on their first day at prep school.

It was in this saccharine, insipid and frankly déclassé climate that the 'fox-hunting' debate began. As with so many other fashionable causes such as the emancipation of women, or the partition of Ireland, the roots can be traced back to the latter part of the 19th century, when Oscar Wilde declared 'huntsmen' unspeakable. Mr Wilde's fellow countryman George 'Bernard' Shaw weighed into the discussion with the frankly chilling admission that 'no sportsman wants to kill the fox, as I want to kill him'. Mr Shaw was a vegan of course and perhaps the lack of adequate nutrition had caused his brain to atrophy, but one can plot a clear line from his disturbing views, through those of the 'abolition of cruelty to animals' chumps, to the socialists that pushed this ill-advised bill through parliament in 2004.

The result as many of you no doubt know was a disgraceful sop. As the law now stands, hunting with hounds is only allowed as long as the fox gives written permission for himself to be shot. I exaggerate slightly, but not by much. Firing a gun, in all other circumstances deemed 'dangerous' or 'likely to cause serious wounding' is it appears the kindest and safest way to dispatch an orange dog. 

The authors of this rot had clearly never enjoyed the vicarious thrill of a hunt. Indeed, I would challenge anyone to attend and not be excited by the sight of men in pink, astride champing mounts, chasing a fox across open farm-land to its certain death at the jaws of a ferocious pack of hounds. It is one of the great sights and traditions of Britain. If not the world.

One can barely open a paper these days without reading about a fox mauling a pet, or attempting to carry off a lamb. Foxes, like socialists, are invariably set more on destruction than feeding themselves and invariably kill willy-nilly. Blair's foolish and ill thought out bill has led to not just the country, but indeed our great towns and cities being over-run by these dreadful vermin.

In short, the sooner the bill is over-turned the better for all concerned; except of course the fox and a few bleeding hearted liberals in need of a hair-cut. And possibly a wash.

The Mitchell Affair: A Very Personal View

Political history is littered with the cadavers of careers that 'might have been'. One thinks often of the remarkable 'Rab' Butler, one of only two politicians to have served in three of the four 'Great Offices of State'. A combination of factors led to Butler failing to make it to the very  top job, though the vulgar interventions of lesser men and irreverent satirists certainly played their part. 'Rab' is now sadly an increasingly forgotten figure; had history been a little kinder he might have kept the ghastly Wilson out of Downing Street in 1964 and the Beatles from their MBEs. 

It has long been my opinion that the paths of most political lives are not dissimilar to a 'continental breakfast'. From the moment one embarks upon one's choice, there is an element of chance involved, a frisson of danger as to what might be coming and invariably, a certain degree of disappointment when one is finally handed the plate. As one sits looking at one's limp croissant, paltry offering of jam and the inevitable 'slice of meat', one can find oneself questioning one's judgement, lamenting one's direction and pondering increasingly upon what it all means. At this point, in a moment of deepest despair one might glimpse a 'full English' arriving at an adjoining table, manned by uncouth fellow diners who have given little thought to their order, but been amply rewarded nonetheless.

Which leads us inevitably to the depressing saga of the former Chief Whip.

One is not for a moment comparing Andrew Mitchell to the great 'Rab' Butler, or even a continental breakfast, but while one can think of many great men whose political lives have been brought crashing down by unfortunate peccadillos, indiscreet staff, or death one can think of only one whose career has been ended by swearing at a police officer. While in no way condoning the use of foul language, it does seem grossly unfair, that while the public is on record as saying that they wish their politicians to be 'more normal' the very moment a government minister resorts to the 'language of the street' they are upbraided for it.

Last night's revelation that the term 'pleb' was not actually deployed adds a further layer to this increasingly tiresome business. As was pointed out at the time of the incident, that now appears never to have occurred, plebeian is a noble word whose principle meaning is 'citizen or free man' and its usage as a term of abuse might well have been unknown to Andrew had he indeed used it (which it appears he did not). 

Clearly there is much tension between the government and the Police Federation at the moment and one does wonder whether Mr Mitchell has fallen victim to what some might term a 'rabid conspiracy'. More pertinently, it clearly demonstrates that the decision in the 1970s to stop teaching Latin in secondary moderns has had far more terrible consequences than anybody could have foretold.

World Wide Mogg Blog: Women Bishops: why faith should be done properly o...

World Wide Mogg Blog: Women Bishops: why faith should be done properly o...: Faith is an intensely personal and private matter. One man's meat can quite literally be another's Leviticus chapter eleven verse seve...

Women Bishops: why faith should be done properly or not at all.

Faith is an intensely personal and private matter. One man's meat can quite literally be another's Leviticus chapter eleven verse seven. For generations and even before the Edict of Worms in 1521, the devout merrily set about burning, beheading and excommunicating each other at the slightest provocation, while legislators and politicians struggled to keep up with who was (quite literally) 'hot' and who was not. 

England itself experienced well over a hundred years of 'to-ing and fro-ing' between the Roman Church and the voguish delights of Anglicanism, involving civil wars, banned Christmases and the murder of Carthusians before finally settling on the Protestant faith. With the passing of the Stuarts, things settled down, but the argument was not fully settled. As you no doubt know, one of the first acts passed by the Parliament of William and Mary in 1689 was the Toleration Act, which granted 'liberty of worship' to all Protestants (except quite rightly the Unitarians) but no mercy to Roman Catholics, who remained enemies of the state for the best part of nearly two hundred years.

There is a good case to argue, that Anglicanism from its very inception was a 'middle class' faith, with all the trappings and preoccupations of that particular social group. It shied instinctively from the grandeur and cerebral delights of the older church and has fussed ever since over the form of things. It reminds one in many ways of the sort of people who, having come into money, worry about whether it is correct to say 'pardon' or 'what' and wring their hands at the thought of being introduced to a Cholmondeley. While Catholicism, like aristocracy, sensibly refused to budge one inch from its sacred beliefs, from the late eighteenth century onward, the Anglican Church became desperate to please. Over the years we have heard of English Bishops questioning Genesis, wondering aloud whether Jesus was the product of a virgin birth, saying 'sorry' for the unpleasantness at Tyburn and regretting the glories of Empire.  Indeed, as recently as 2008 the Church of England was apologising to the very firmly deceased Charles Darwin, for not having taken the trouble to fully listen to his hair-brained theory that we are all descended from baboons.

Which brings us - and I hope you are still paying attention at the back - to the decision yesterday by the General Synod to refuse the ordination of women Bishops.

The Bible is very clear on the matter of women priests. It is written in the first book of Timothy verse 2 chapter 12:  διδάσκειν δὲ γυναικὶ οὐκ ἐπιτρέπω οὐδὲ αὐθεντεῖν ἀνδρός, ἀλλ’ εἶναι ἐν ἡσυχίᾳ.* Of course there are some who argue that these texts were written at a 'different time' and that we are living in the 'modern age'. The problem with taking that approach to faith, is that if one keeps changing things, one takes the very real risk of throwing the newly baptised infant out with the holy water. The very point of Christianity and indeed all other faiths is that they are written in stone. 

In this respect Christianity has long reminded one of Monarchy. One should either do it properly or not at all. The word of God, is the word of God. If said God had wished his Bishops to be women, he would have made it very clear that they should be so. If the English Church is to survive it should resist the temptation to 'modernise' and perhaps spend more time reading its sacred texts and less time waving its hands about to rock music and shaking a 'tambourine'.



*I suffer not a woman to teach nor to usurp authority over a man, but to be in silence. 

Quo tendimus interretium? How an internet Magna Carta could mean the end of 'trolls' and bad spelling.

Some months before the general election a tiresome blog, purportedly written by 'Jacob Rees-Mogg' appeared on the internet. This badly spelled, clearly fictional nonsense, was widely assumed to have been written by myself. It was in fact the work of a student at Bath 'University'. After considerable cost, my lawyers managed to track this chap down and make him sign an affidavit agreeing to cease publication of this irreverent drivel. One hoped that the message would 'get out' and that my experience of 'lampoon by internet' was over; unfortunately it was but the beginning. Over the ensuing years a cacophony of fake twitter accounts, blogs and even 'Wikipedia' entries rang forth from the web. Of these assaults, the 'Wiki' nonsense was perhaps the most distressing. This so-called 'encyclopedia' at various times described me as a 'world expert on lettuce', a champion beer barrel roller, a founding member of the Keynsham 'Hell's Angel' chapter and an authority on the life of 'Nick Kershaw'. I confess that prior to this last 'alteration' I had never heard of Nick Kershaw, let alone been troubled with the details of his life. 

Almost every innovation in history has brought with it a cavalcade of annoyance to those in positions of power and influence. From the moment Ts'ai Lun, a first century eunuch in the Chinese Emperor's court, invented paper it caused chagrin. The new medium, cheap, flexible and durable, was perfect for spreading tittle-tattle and Lun himself was eventually hoisted by his own petard. Implicated in court intrigue, he was moved to dress in his finest silken robes and drink from a poisoned chalice. I confess that in my darker moments, I have occassionaly wished that 'internet trolls' would take a leaf out of the irksome eunuch's book.

The invention of 'social networking sites' coupled with a growing 'work from home' culture and increased unemployment, has created a 'fish-wife' phenomena wherein millions of time rich individuals can lean on a virtual garden fence and exchange slander, rumour and 'ideas'. Where once opinions were the preserve  of trained 'journalists', politicians or mutually agreed 'sui generis', now anyone with a computer and fingers to type is able to express an idea, write a sentence, or abuse those who can. 

Melanie Phillips has described this phenomena as tantamount to 'a sadistic mob rampaging across the web' and certainly I could not put it better myself. Those familiar with the 'twittersphere' have long sensed that there was a 'McAlpine' moment coming. As the good Lord has now had his name cleared and is very sensibly pursuing anyone who 'retweeted' this libelous nonsense with extreme intolerance, we might now pause, reflect and ask quo tendimus? Or where do we go from here?

It is clear that the 'internet' can no longer be covered by acts of law. The Rubicon has been crossed and we are in need of something much greater. An electronic 'Bill of Rights'; a 'Magna Carta' for the technological age. I have yet to thrash out the articles of this grand project and would welcome ideas from anyone with expertise, but most sensible people would probably agree on the core principles:

• An end to anonymity on the internet;
• A stricter adherence to the rules of the land in which the 'author' is writing or in which his words might be read;
• The introduction of a licensing system for bloggers or those engaging in social media. Users could perhaps start with three 'points' and lose them should they act without due diligence or care; once lost the person in question might be banned or forced to take a test before 'logging on' again;
• Stricter rules about who can blog or tweet and a tightening of regulations pertaining to persistently poor spellers;
• Internet courts, where legal issues relating to the web could be quickly decided by 'web magistrates' and justice meted out.

There may be those among you who feel this to be an over-reaction. There may be those who have yet to suffer the fall out from a 'twitter storm' or the dreadful public humiliation that comes when one is told one is 'trending'. To such people I say hodie mihi, cras tibi. To the rest I bid good day.

Yes to an Empress Elizabeth of Europe, No to a President Blair

Speaking in Berlin on Monday, the now frankly cantaloupe coloured Tony Blair called for a directly elected President of the European Union. Mr Blair's flagrant self promotion was only the latest chapter in the EU's erratic 'make it up as we go along' approach to this whole unfortunate 'project' and while one would hope that the British people long ago realised that 'Teflon Tony' was turning increasingly rusty, there is always the fear that our European neighbours might be a little slower on the uptake.

If the EU were not draining every penny of the English taxpayer's hard earned loose change, in the pursuit of duplicate bananas, one might be tempted to say that this issue was of no great import. However the failure to freeze our tribute to the senate in Brussels, despite my own and Peter Bone's valiant efforts, leads one to the inevitable conclusion that we are, in the continental fashion, to be quartered before we are hung. In spite of this I would ask those of you contemplating an 'Easyjet' flight to the Dignitas clinic in Switzerland to take a moment's respite. For there is no need of a President Blair, when we already have an Empress Elizabeth in waiting.

When Mary I ascended the throne in 1554, she was not simply crowned the 'Queen of England' but also of France, Naples, Jerusalem and Sicily as well as the Archduchess of countless amusingly names territories from Burgundy to Tyrol. By the time George I stepped up to the plate, further titles had been added including, crucially, the role of Elector of the Holy Roman Empire. While not in fact the 'top job' an Elector played a significant part in deciding who the chief honcho was to be and under the very clear edicts of the Golden Bull of 1356, could indeed be elected Emperor if there was no other suitable candidate for the vacancy.

You have no doubt spotted that there is indeed no current incumbent on the throne of the Holy Roman Empire. The last holder of the post was the negligent and pontifical Francis II of Austria who 'gave it up' limply in 1806 to pursue instead his penchant for vulgar furnishings and an 'Austro-Hungarian' empire. As the seat is vacant it clearly needs to be filled and one can think of no better gift befitting a monarch who has outshone all the contemporaneous crowned heads of her age, than to add 'Empress of the Holy Roman Empire' to her current styling. As such she would become the hereditary ruler of everything west of the Bosphorus and south of St Petersburg and Mr Blair would be sent scuttling back into the 'tanning salon' from which he managed to escape.

At this point no doubt you are contemplating the French and their foolish experiment with 'republicanism'. Inevitably these cheese eating revolutionaries and their fellow anti-monarchist friends might object to the leader of the EU being decided on British hereditary precedent. To which I would respond by saying that simply because one has inadvertently invited a vegetarian to the Christmas luncheon, one should feel no obligation to serve all of the guests lentils and 'tofu goose'. The greatest victories of European history have been British led and a union that forgets our history, is doomed to repeat the mistakes of their past. Let us evoke not the spirit of dull care and eurocratic compromise, but rather the grace of the Holy Roman Empire and boldly move forward together, or not at all. One hopes for the former, but rather fears we will be left with the latter.

Heathrow 3rd runway: the lessons to be learned from an 11th Century monk

On a bright spring morning in the year 1010, a young monk called Eilmer climbed up onto the roof of Malmesbury Abbey in Wiltshire, attached two wings fashioned from wattle, birch-tar and goose feathers to his back and launched himself forth into the air. In an act inspired by the legend of Daedalus and his half-witted son Icarus, the slightly built Benedictine floated gracefully through the air and alighted some 600 feet away on a spot just off the 'High Street'. Fatuous and feeble-minded souls have long claimed that the 'first flight' was performed by a couple of American bicycle repair-men called Wright. They are wrong. Accurate scholarship proves that along with most other innovations of note from democracy to the inter-web, flight originated in Britain. 

It is a curious fact, oft noted, that while the English are very good at creating things we are exceptionally bad at elaborating upon them. Having troubled to invent aviation we seem to have rather sat on our laurels over the matter for some nine hundred years. It was only when the predictably emulous French flew one of their chaps over the white cliffs of Dover in 1909 that we finally pulled our stockings up and got on with the job. Inevitably once we did so we rapidly surpassed our 'continental' rivals and produced a string of outstanding aircraft from the unforgettable Sopwith Strutter to the Harrier 'jump' jet.

In recent years the emergence of the 'green' movement has put paid to our aviation heritage. Through fear mongering and often disgraceful lobbying the 'do-gooders' of the left and their fellow travellers in the 'ecological movement' have managed to convince millions that aeroplanes are a 'bad thing'. Heathrow airport, once the greatest aerodrome in the western hemisphere, has been allowed to languish while our EU 'partners' have goose-stepped ahead, giving themselves a not inconsiderable advantage in the process. Enough frankly is enough and unless we take swift and immediate action to rectify the situation it may well take another millenium to seize back the initiative. 

There are those who argue that airport expansion takes time and needs considerable consultation. One can only be grateful that such nincompoops were not around in the months leading up to the Battle of Britain. By the end of the second war the United Kingdom boasted hundreds of airports. The sad decay of these historic sites is a matter for another day, but to argue that the country has 'no room for flight expansion' is not just rot, but 'sandal wearing rot'.

The eminent medieval historian 'William of Malmesbury', writing of Eilmer's astonishing achievement nearly a century after the event, relates how the Abbott was so enraged by the monk's astonishing feat, that he set about him with a wooden rake and forbade him from ever attempting to emulate fictional Cretans again. One trusts that the newly appointed Secretary of State for Transport, Patrick McLoughlin, will be inspired less by the Abbott and more by his monk. 

Capax infiniti.