Some advice for the young.

Much mischief has been conjured out of David Cameron's key-note 'welfare' speech at the Bluewater Shopping Centre on Monday. Unsurprisingly perhaps those Trotskyist bulwarks of the media, the BBC and the increasingly erratic and tiresome Guardian 'newspaper' have attacked the PM for his perceived assault on the 'poor' and 'needy.' The fact that he quite pointedly underlined his commitment to those groups most in need of state assistance was conveniently ignored by these drab and opportunistic drones, in favour of a predictable assault on his 'out of touch' 'nasty party' values.

Like vultures circling an orphaned lamb, leftists have long been waiting to pounce on the PM's 'social care' principles and tear his credibility to shreds and one could almost hear the flapping of the raptors wings as he left the podium in Dartford. 

David's eminently sensible idea, the removal of housing benefit for the under 25s is just that, 'eminently sensible'. The cost to the state, by which of course one means the 'tax-payer' of these scroungers and layabouts is a very considerable £2 billion per year. What is more, it is a totally unnecessary handout to people who should be making their own way in the world, rather than leeching off hard working middle class people.

Of course one should never forget the urgency of youth. It is not surprising that after leaving 'uni' many among the 'young', having supped at the chalice of 'freedom' for three years, should wish to set their own bed-times and not live under the same rooves as their parents. For my part, I well remember coming down from Oxford in the early nineties and realising with a kind of horror that I was (momentarily) 'listless' and reliant on my family for 'handouts'. Happily a couple of short phone calls and a few brief weeks later, I was off making my own way in the world, but contrary to popular belief I do appreciate the very real struggles that other less connected people have after graduation.

One thinks indeed of a certain unfortunate acquaintance who, fresh out of a 'red brick' and with a rather 'second class' degree, was forced to 'slum it' in a succession of menial jobs at various tabloid newspapers for what amounted to little more than a five figure salary. Happily his life was turned around eventually and he has indeed managed to make a success of himself out of a combination of 'hard graft' and 'good cheer'. 

Should the state have supplemented my chum? Of course not and neither frankly should it aid any whose parents are still living and are able to offer their children a bed, a room or even a spare annexe at the family home. With a little creative thinking, outbuildings like stables or defunct follies can quickly be converted to offer much needed breathing space to both parent and 'young adult' alike. For those without such facilities a caravan or 'camper van' can always make a good temporary bolt-hole, whether one rests one's head in it or not.

As the PM stressed on Monday, there are always some for whom an exception must be made. The very poor have long brought little to the 'party' but this is not a reason to 'put the bouncers' on them. Indeed 'welfare folk' often remind one of a certain 'other' acquaintance from Notting Hill days who would routinely arrive at the door with a 'screw top bottle' of Antipodean wine and then proceed to quaff their hosts superior Margaux. Quite rightly the customs of the state prohibit us from hurling such people from our circle, however much we might be tempted to do so from time to time. The meek shall, like the Liberal Democrats, always be with us, although one doubts very much (in both cases) as to whether they shall indeed inherit the earth, let alone the Kingdom.

Leaving the very poor aside, my advice to normal people under the age of 25 is this. Enjoy the precious time you have with your Ma and Pa. Do not run gaily from the familial home until such time as you can afford to stand on your own two feet. Use your contacts wisely. Take not that which you do not need. And always avoid those who come bearing gifts of inferior blended wine.

Bono, Facebook And The Envy Of The Mogg

It was Socrates who said ὁ φθόνος ἕλκος τῆς ψυχῆς* and as with so many ideas gifted us by that great thinker, his words are as pertinent today as when he first uttered them beneath the olive trees of Athens some two and a half thousand years ago.

In the last twenty four hours 'Bono', the front-man of pop music group The U2 (pictured above) has been accused of everything from hypocrisy to rapacity for having the effrontery to make himself an honest billion from a day's work.

Having taken a stake of 2.3% in the 'social networking' site Facebook in 2009, Mr Bono's private equity fund Elevation now stands to make a decent sized return on that initial capital investment. Estimates have put the figure at anything between one and two billion pounds, which is by any reckoning a significant gain on a clever and savvy financial venture.

Mr Bono has done nothing illegal, nobody has been hurt, no horses have been scared and yet his accomplishment has been broadly lambasted and ridiculed, raked over and assailed.

The poor chap has even been driven to deny his good fortune telling the Belfast Telegraph: 'Contrary to reports, I'm not a billionaire or going to be any richer than any Beatle (sic).' Leaving Mr Bono's tenuous grip on even the rudimentary elements of grammar aside for one moment, this sentence says much about the modern insistence on 'debasing' success. Instead of celebrating his company's performance he has felt obliged to talk it down. Why?

The general sentiment seems to be that as this well-meaning beatnik has a history of wandering about the place, telling the great and good that they should save impecunious 'Third Worlders' from poverty, he ought to now put his money where his mouth is and jolly well rescue them himself. To which one feels the urge to respond as follows: Balderdash.

'Pop sensations' rarely wish to have MP's riding to their salvation and I very much hope that Mr Bono shall not object to me weighing in on his behalf. However, having perused the facts of this storm in a sherry glass, it is quite clear to me that this brouhaha has little to do with genuine indignation on the part of the 'mob' and quite a lot more to do with 'envy'. Those lambasting this 'windfall' clearly have little understanding of how an investment company works. It is not a 'piggy bank' into which one can dip at whim. It is a business, employing people, creating jobs, boosting the global market economy. Sadly, such arguments rarely wash with those most in need of a bath. One wonders how many of those dread-locked, vegetable eating, 'anti-capitalists' decrying  this singer his success, would do what they implore of him were the contents of their bank accounts to amount to much more than the sum earned from their 'weekly giros'.

Of course these British Isles (and I very much include 'Eire' in this) have a habit of decrying success. For Mr Bono to have been able to rise from the sort of abject poverty where his parents clearly could not afford the expense of a second name, or even elocution lessons, should be a cause for celebration. It frequently feels that those left behind in the 'pit of pauperism' are too busy throwing potatoes at the chaps who have clambered up a step to bother lauding their achievements, or better still set out to achieve the same for themselves.

Perhaps I am being unfair. It is of course not only the bottom rank who envy success. Most of us could, with the help of a few friends, quite easily have rustled up the initial £150 million investment made by Elevation and popped it into Facebook for ourselves. The fact that we did not is the real agent of this unseemly onslaught of covetousness. We are all too often prey to the unsettling sensation that 'every time another succeeds, a little part of one dies'. Let us strive to rise like Rome against this 'Alaric' of jealousy and slay it before it crosses the Triumphal arch of our reason.

I bid you all good cheer.

'JRM'

* 'envy is the ulcer of the soul'  

A Downton Economy: Why we should subsidise great houses not tax them.

A Stately Home Economy

'Vince' Cable has upset many this week by suggesting that in place of a fifty pence top rate tax, the 'Liberal Democrats' would be favourably disposed towards the idea of a 'Mansion Tax' instead. Of course, one's immediate suspicion is that this is yet another slightly disingenuous attempt by our increasingly mendacious coalition 'partners' to throw a tiger among the starlings by sowing seeds of innuendo and envy among the electorate. The veiled implication clearly is that those living in a two million pound home are most probably 'wealthy' and therefore more likely to vote Conservative. Any subsequent dismissal of the idea can then be attacked by Vince and his friends on the sneering basis that 'the Tories are against taxation of large homes because they live in them'. All very Daily Mirror.

However, let us for the moment give Mr Cable the benefit of the doubt and assume that his motives are honourable and that his purpose is fair. A mansion tax may well raise the £1.7 billion in revenue that analysts predict, but it would also directly hit hard working families already struggling under the burden of large leaking rooves, wings in desperate need of refurbishment and the bills associated with the tending of the large gardens, follies and box hedge mazes that are invariably part and parcel of these dwellings. There is a widespread misconception that because one lives in a big house one must ipso facto be 'wealthy'. This is of course poppycock. Many of the very poorest people of my acquaintance live in some of the very biggest homes. The upkeep of these piles, well documented by Noel Coward as early as 1933, is immense and every last penny is routinely hurled at them - but though the Van Dykes frequently have to go and the Bechstein Grand is more often than not 'pawned', the good people who have acquired these wonderful buildings strive to keep them standing.

In many respects this is a public service. A selfless act of financial martyrdom, which generally results in offspring being sent to second eleven public schools or the number and quality of domestic staff being reduced to the bare minimum.

It has long been my thesis that the answer to most of our current problems can be resolved by doing the exact opposite of whatever it is that the Liberal Democrats are proposing. On this basis, perhaps rather than taxing the owners of homes worth two million pounds and upwards, we should be giving them money instead. In so doing we would create a thriving 'Downton Economy'. Large homes were built to be staffed. The number of domestics needed to run a medium sized (fourteen bedroom) Great House in the early twentieth century was anything between ten and thirty servants, which in turn provided a good employment opportunity for many. Sadly the rising costs of staff, coupled with the invidious growth of 'socialism' spelt an end to these employment prospects and 'service' today no long affords the cachet of respectability that it once had.

It is a modest proposal perhaps, but instead of sending our young jobless to work for little or nothing at 'Tesco' or 'Aldi' could we not provide them with employment in our larger houses? The taxpayer could dispense some sort of financial incentive to the landowners and indeed a thriving 'stately home sector' could be established leading to a boom not only in the servant and service industries but also in the education of these listless young people. Scullery maids need 'training' as much as any car mechanic or pastry chef and perhaps instead of wasting years studying 'nail technology' at 'Lewisham College' young women might learn something useful, such as how to most efficiently polish a candelabra, starch a collar or clean out a fireplace.

It has long been my impression that Liberal Democrats are driven primarily by envy. They remind one of the Ronnie Barker character in the old That Was The Week That Was sketch, caught in an unenviable position that is neither looking up nor looking down. In all matters pertaining to these yellow perils one is certainly best off listening politely - and then looking away.

Floccinaucinihilipilification.

One has rather depressingly hit the headlines once more for all the wrong reasons. During Tuesday's invigorating debate on the remuneration of EU staff, I employed the word 'floccinaucinihilipilification' while describing the frankly tiresome behaviour of EU 'judges'. One's contempt for these 'European' drones is a matter of public record and I do not intend to dwell on them, their dubious pronouncements on 'Human Rights' or the size of Abu Qatada's cauliflowers, for frankly they are no more deserving of my digital type than a wasp is of a picnicker's angry fist.

No, I am afraid my purpose in today's blog is one of pure pedantry; for my employment of the word, with whose meaning you are no doubt familiar (to adjudge something worthless), has unleashed a veritable rash of articles wrongly claiming that it is the 'longest word in the English language’. You have no doubt laughed gaily along with me at the utter ignorance therein displayed, for the most elongated lexeme in our rich and abundant vocabulary is in fact:

methionylglutaminylarginyltyrosylglutamyl- serylleucylphenylalanylalanylglutaminyl- leucyllysylglutamylarginyllysylglutamyl- glycylalanylphenylalanylvalylprolylphenyl- alanylvalylthreonylleucylglycylaspartyl- prolylglycylisoleucylglutamylglutaminyl serylleucyllysylisoleucylaspartyl- threonylleucyl isoleucylglutamylalanyl- glycylalanylaspartylalanylleucylglutamyl leucylglycylisoleucylprolylphenylalanyl- serylaspartylprolylleucylalanylaspartyl- glycylprolylthreonylisoleucylglutaminyl- asparaginylalanylthreonylleucylarginyl- alanylphenylalanylalanylalanyl- glycylvalylthreonylprolylalanyl- glutaminylcysteinylphenylalanyl- glutamylmethionylleucylalanylleucyl- isoleucylarginylglutaminyllysylhistidyl- prolylthreonylisoleucylprolylisoleucyl- glycylleucylleucylmethionyltyrosylal- anylasparaginylleucylvalylphenylalanyl- asparaginyllysylglycylisoleucylas- partylglutamylphenylalanyltyrosylal- anylglutaminylcysteinylglutamyllysyl- valylglycylvalylaspartylserylvalylleucyl- valylalany laspartylvalylprolylvalyl- glutaminylglutamylserylalanylprolyl phenylalanylarginylglutaminylalanyl- alanylleucylarginylhistidylasparaginyl- valylalanylprolylisoleucylphenylalanyl- isoleucylcysteinylprolylprolylaspartyl- alanylaspartylaspartylaspartylleucyl- leucylarginylglutaminylisoleucylalanyl- seryltyrosylglycylarginylglycyl- tyrosylthreonyltyrosylleucylleucyl- serylarginylalanylglycylvalylthreonyl- glycylalanylglutamylasparag- inylarginylalanylalanylleucylprolyl- leucylasparaginylhistidylleucylvalyl- alanyllysylleucyllysylglutamyltyrosyl- asparaginylalanylalanylprolylprolyl- leucylglutaminylglycylphenylalanyl- glycylisoleucylserylalanylprolyl- aspartylglutaminylvalyllysylalanyl- alanylisoleucylaspartylalanyl- glycylalanylalanylglycylalanyliso- leucylserylglycylserylalanylisoleu- cylvalyllysylisoleucylisoleucylglutamyl- glutaminylhistidylasparaginylisoleucyl- glutamylprolylglutamyllysylmethionyl- leucylalanylalanylleucyllysylvalylphenyl- alanylvalylglutaminylprolylmethionyl- lysylalanylalanylthreonylarginylserine

- the chemical name for ‘titin’ and the largest know protein. Please feel rest assured that the very moment the subject of 'molecular springs' arises in the Commons I shall be ready, nay itching, to deploy this redoubtable noun.

I am afraid that is all we have space for this week.

Good-bye.

JRM

What happened at Bideford and the allure of silence

The parliamentary recess is with us once more, affording me the opportunity to experience an increasingly rare delight. For as one goes about London during the week, whether sitting through debates at Westminster, or mixing with 'friends' in restaurants, or even lying in one's cot contemplating matters of state and the reason for Lembit Opik, one is rarely if ever afforded the luxury of  'complete silence'. The incessant throb of our great capital city is unfortunately, like the threat of gout or a branch of 'Tesco Metro', never very far away. It seems, increasingly, as if people in general are afraid of stillness; that if they were to switch off their 'walkmen' or reduce their verbal babel they might, like Echo, fade into nothingness.

Last week, the High Court in London decreed that councillors in the town of Bideford in Devon were breaching the terms of the 1972 Local Government Act, by choosing to hold prayers prior to their sessions. It seems that one of their number, a certain Mr Bone, had 'got Dawkins' and subsequently taken umbrage at the religious devotion of his fellow members. I need hardly add that Mr Bone is a representative of the Liberal Democrats, whose leader is such a fan of the oddball 'Professor' and his crackpot views, but one cannot help feeling that this victory is a hollow one, a shallow one and a rather sad reflection on the sort of noise obsessed, spiritually shy, society in which we live.

Both Houses of Parliament start their day with brief prayer sessions.  This tradition, thought to date back to the mid sixteenth century, affords Members of the Commons and the Lords the opportunity to reflect on their duty and in the case of the Lords to thank their maker for giving them the chance to see another day.  These sessions are a wonderful moment to stand silently, before the hurly burly, rough and tumble business of democracy 'kicks in' and although they are often poorly attended, for my own part, I am always very grateful for the meditation they afford.

I am sad to report that having won their first scalp at Bideford the agnostic rabble have now turned their gaze on Westminster. While consoling oneself with the fact that The Established Church remains an integral part of the constitutional framework of our nation, one does increasingly fear that 'political correctness' and this populist 'fad' for atheism may yet win the day. Should this happen, we will not only lose a rather superb tradition, but yet another moment of rare silence in the cut and thrust, hither and thither, shout and mumble ‘culture’ of our depressingly modern world. 

One day perhaps, when faith has been reduced to an echo and the Narcissus Dawkins remains - staring fondly at his eyebrows in a stream - we may think back on what we have lost. And weep.

World Wide Mogg Blog: How The Failure Of McCarthyism Turned Cbeebies Red...

World Wide Mogg Blog: How The Failure Of McCarthyism Turned Cbeebies Red...: When I was what is now fashionably termed a 'young adolescent', my parents decided that I was not watching enough television. In fact I was...

How The Failure Of McCarthyism Turned Cbeebies Red

When I was what is now fashionably termed a 'young adolescent', my parents decided that I was not watching enough television. In fact I was watching none. I am not ashamed to admit that the reason for this was a mixture of suspicion and snobbery. Popular culture in the 1970s and 1980s was characterised by men with long hair shouting, while women in dungarees prevailed upon young viewers to follow them through a series of square, circular and triangular windows. One's recent invocation of 'Bagpuss' in a speech to the House was wrongly assumed to be a tribute to the fluffy old cloth cat. In fact one was always far happier reading Horace than 'catching up' with the antics of that soporific feline and a soundtrack that consisted of 'folk music' being played on a 'banjo'. Worse. Even then, one could not escape the feeling that there was a hidden agenda at work. That somehow beneath the japery of Brian Cant and the tom-foolery of 'finger mouse', young minds were being indoctrinated, rewired, 'socialised'.

As long as pictures have moved there have been forces at work wishing to manipulate them. You are no doubt familiar with the history of early Soviet Propaganda in the 1920s and 1930s. The Romanoff family, who had for centuries selflessly served the interests of the Russian peasantry, were portrayed in a series of films as nepotistic despots, concerned solely with their own preservation, while their people starved and wept. Rot of course, but effective rot - and as was the case in one of our bathrooms last year, the rot spread.

By the 1950's the charismatic American Senator 'Joe' McCarthy had cottoned on to the fact that Hollywood itself was stuffed full of Communist sympathisers and Soviet Fifth Columnists. In a series of spectacular interventions  he proved beyond any reasonable doubt that, among others, Charlie Chaplin, Edward G Robinson, Marilyn Monroe, 'Zero' Mostel and even Daffy Duck  were part of a deeply entrenched Marxist conspiracy intent on corrupting the minds of American youth and the wider world with their 'socialist ideals'. Sadly, pressure by influential 'stars' ended the trials before they could finish what they had begun and many of the lesser known 'artists' (mostly writers) managed to slip through the fingers of the FBI. The grim determination of the 'Red' is well documented and I am sorry to say that many of them made their way to Britain.

From around 1950 these writers in exile, many operating under assumed names, found work in our nascent television industry. Perhaps the best known example was the shameful series The Adventures of Robin Hood and his Merry Men, which was written by a number of blacklisted writers. In this 'entertainment' Robin is seen not as a foul villain of history, which he undoubtedly was, thieving from hard working burghers and embattled local politicians, but as a sort of hero, 'redistributing' wealth to the work-shy poor. Although originally aired on what is now called 'ITV' it’s terrible influence spread, as those responsible for its creation hired like-minded 'creatives' and instilled a 'leftist' agenda in British 'TV' that continues to this day.

As ever, the main target of this propagandist filth was youth. By the 1970s one could hardly tune in to 'Watch with Mother' without being assaulted by a cavalcade of populist Marxist causes. The Wombles were a clear and obvious attempt to inculcate young viewers with 'green' ideals. Illegal immigration was brazenly glamorised and sanitised in the tale of 'Paddington' a stowaway purporting to be from Peru (his documents are conveniently ‘lost’) who arrives in West London and is hidden from the authorities by a family of well-meaning liberals called 'The Browns'. One can hardly bring oneself to mention the odious 'hippy' values of The Magic Roundabout or the innuendo filled 'design for living' as proposed 'a trois' by the presenters of 'Blue' Peter. Later televisual insights on working class children provided by first Grange Hill and later 'Byker' Grove convinced one of two things. The need for more affordable 'private' education and the true extent of socialist 'infiltration' within the medium.

Suffice to say, the liberal indoctrination of young minds by children's television and particularly the BBC continues to this day. The bias displayed in the average edition of 'Newsround' as ‘leftist’ disguised as 'good’ causes are promoted, is enough to drive one to burn one's license. It continues to astonish me that the superb 'Fox News' Channel, routinely comes in for a bashing from the left, whilst this brazen ‘socialism’ slips by. One has no doubt in one’s mind that last year’s riots were at least in part caused by befuddled minds, enraged by a babyhood spent parked in front of the ‘Teletubbies’.

What can be done? The answer is very simple. Monitor what your children are viewing. Encourage them to question the veracity of their news sources from a very early age. And under no circumstances read them those dreadful 'Gruffalo' books. Give them Horace instead.

My warmest regards to each one of you.