Et tu, Douglas? The noble art of back stabbing

The morning of March the 15th 44BC, was much like any other spring day in Rome. The sun shone brightly on the cobbled streets and red topped roofs of the city and as gladiators practised and parried inside the great Colosseum and the Vestal Virgins went about their nonsense, few could have suspected that a violent act of tyrannicide would soon play out in the capital.

Since being named "Dictator Perpetuo", Julius Caesar had increasingly lost touch with the concerns of the common slaves and citizens of his great Empire and had taken to strutting about the place with new chum, the "Vince Cable like", Lucius Cornelius Balbus. Much disliked by the General's core supporters, Balbus was from a different party of knights altogether who had, up until this point, had very little influence or power in Rome. 

The new coalition had alienated most of Caesar's former allies and while the great man had got away with crossing the Rubicon, many remained furious that he had crossed it in the first place.

Just after lunch, that fateful day, Caesar decided to take in a spot of Gladiatorial combat at the Theatre of Pompey but before he even had a chance to buy his popcorn, he was stabbed repeatedly by his own back-benchers and with a cry of "Ista quidem vis est?" breathed his last. Shakespeare later imagined that the final assailant in this bloodied assault was his 'close friend' Brutus, at the sight of whom Caesar reportedly enquired: "Et tu, Brute?"

Some two thousand years later, in the streets of Frinton and Clacton a latter day insurrection of possibly far greater consequence is afoot. Douglas Carswell, may carry a leaflet where Marcus Junius Brutus carried a knife, but his endeavour is no less thankless or noble for it. Douglas is, as so many others have already pointed out, a man of considerable honour and charm; possessed of a great intellect, a subtle wit and an enormous sense of fun, he has a habit of roaring with laughter at himself and is famously one of the most 'ordinary' people at Westminster. Some have wrongly labelled him weird and eccentric; from my perspective he is anything but. One doubts that the good people of Frinton and Clacton could find a man more worthy of representing them.  

Liked and admired across the political spectrum, Douglas follows in the great tradition of enigmatic Eurosceptics such as Bill Cash, Bernard Jenkin or John Redwood. Normal men all, who for years have been warning about the dangers of the EU. 

You are no doubt aware, gentle reader, that I too have my doubts about Europe. Like many Englishmen, I like my bananas bent, my rulers more regal and my laws less metric than the EU allows and have dedicated my political life to preserving the integrity and charm of this delicate isle. I do however feel that this end can best be achieved by sitting on the government benches and choosing one's moment to whisper in the PM's ear, rather than skulking about the place with a lot of oddballs.

Douglas has stuck his neck out. He has ripped the toga of David's prevarication asunder and with Farage at his elbow, has plunged a dagger of intent into the heart of the coalition. Gruesome analogies aside, that is a rather noble thing to have done. 

There are some who suggest that Douglas, like Brutus before him, has miscalculated and that a swift and early victory in the by-election will be followed by pitiful humiliation at the general election. I am not one of them. Few politician rise above the fray of petty party politics and if anyone in the current crop can it is Douglas Carswell (and possibly "Rory" Stewart). I have little doubt that he will regain his seat in the short term.

Whether UKIP itself will be able to achieve momentum beyond a seaside town packed full of ill educated crackpots, yahoos and social misfits remains to be seen.

After Caesar's death, Brutus fled eastwards towards Macedonia. There his forces clashed with the avenging armies of Octavian and Mark Antony. Early triumph was followed swiftly by defeat at the Second Battle of Philippi. Realising that he had spent the latter part of his life on a fool's errand Brutus committed suicide. 

Plutarch tells us that his friend Antony covered the dead Senator's body in a purple garment as a sign of respect. His legacy rests on a single act of regicide and a throwaway line in an Elizabethan play. His career had peaked at just 43. 

Good luck Douglas. And a very happy 44th birthday in May.

Every creed has its "Cuckoo Faction": why UKIP are 'the new SDP'

All the great faiths (and political movements are in essence Godless faiths) have schisms from time to time.

In 1054 the medieval world was rent asunder when the Chalcedonian Church was hewn into the Eastern Orthodox and Western Roman Catholic traditions over the urgent question as to whether the Eucharist bread should be leaven or not. While both sides could agree on the central tenets of Christianity, they could meet no accommodation on the issue of whether one's communion loaf should be risen or flat and the two factions split, never to be reconciled again. 

In the early 1980s, the Labour party leader Michael Foot, a Wadham man to his fingertips, attempted to turn his already somewhat Maoist party into something that would have made Trotsky blush. His election manifesto, which became known as "the longest suicide note in history", demanded (among other things) the re-nationalisation of the butter industry, the sale of the navy to the Russians, the construction of a Soviet theme park at Buckingham Palace and the abolition of the blue and white themes on the Union Jack. 

Foot's foolish and ill-timed document did not chime well with the electorate and drove the four remaining sensible MPs in his party to form "The SDP" whose bright moment in the sun I shall return to in a moment.

While one might shy from comparing UKIP to the Eastern Orthodox Church of the mid-eleventh century and the eminently likeable Mr Farage to the tiresome 'Mr' Foot, the schism which has occurred in The Conservative Movement is very much in the grand tradition of such estrangements. Here the question is not one of 'baked dough' or 'red flags', but far more important questions such as: "should Brussels be allowed to dictate the size of our sprouts?" Or "Should our "civil liberties" drive on the left (as they always have done) or the 'human right' (as the legal oafs in Strasbourg would wish us to do)". 

One does not need to be Archimedes of Syracuse to work out that the "Kippers" are in essence a refugee wing of the Tory party and specifically the "Redwood wing" of John Major's administration ca. 1996. There is something rather noble about these people and one is often put in mind of the anti-appeasers of the 1930s, who saw the tide turning in favour of Nazi Germany and boldly decided to make a stand. It is my conviction that we should seek not to drive them from the high altar of Tory Euroscepticism, but accommodate them and where our interests meet perhaps even indulge them.

Indeed one might argue that Nigel Farage's party is in many ways a right wing equivalent of the 1980s SDP. Just as Labour and the Liberals were forced to rethink who they were by what was then considered to be a fresh and unstoppable movement, so UKIP are now making us rethink our party and what we stand for. Do we wish to push forward into Europe and put ourselves at the centre of that strange, mystifying, dark and perilous continent? Or do we wish to pull back, disconnect and have nothing more to do with those garlic munching buffoons? 

In recent weeks the media has sought to focus on the 'loons', 'racists' and 'nutters' in UKIP; the sort of slightly misguided chumps who suggest that 'Sharia Law' is about to be introduced in our primary schools or that the EU is run by a vast Lizard army. And yes of course anyone who has met or spoken to "Kippers" will be very much aware that such views are widely held across all sections of the party, but to suggest that tiresome elements are exclusive to UKIP would be utter nonsense. Every creed has its cuckoo faction. One needs only think of the increasingly unhinged "Owen" Jones. Or the "Vince" Cable wing of the Liberal Democrats. Or the SNP - which like a Vulcan bomber seems increasingly to be 'all wing'.

In the 1987 election the SDP failed to live up to their early promise and merged into the Liberal Democrat and "New Labour" movements. David Owen's party had served its purpose, run its course and had its day. It is quite possible that a similar fate awaits UKIP at the General Election next year. In the meantime Mr Farage has tapped into a large reservoir of Conservative discontent. We would do well to drink from it occasionally, or our temporary Conservative schism might end in an Avignon Papacy.

And that would  be a disaster. 

A Very Rees-Mogg Christmas N to Z

Keen followers of this occasional "blog" will no doubt have noticed that I have left the remaining Christmas letters to the very last minute. I would like to claim that this was intentional, but the truth is that I have found myself far too busy with 'politics' and only now have a few spare minutes to attend to the far more important matter of my Christmas A to Z.

Nutmeg - in the 17th Century, Holland monopolised the cultivation of this little East Indian nut and blocked all attempts to open up the market. Curiously the plant was only found in a few islands of the Indonesian archipelago and the Flemish traders were unwilling to share it, putting up trade barriers and generally making themselves both rich and unpopular. Happily in 1809 the British seized the Banda islands from the Dutch in a violent attack that killed thousands and broke the whole ghastly monopoly, teaching the Netherlanders a valuable lesson in free trade and providing cheap nutmeg for Christmas lunches across the land ever since.

Oven - it is terribly recherché to have an oven. An Aga will cook most things to perfection and keep the basement delightfully warm. In my own experience a cosy kitchen usually means a happy staff.

Partridge (in a pear tree) - there are many interpretations of this verse from the popular Christmas song. Some see the bird as 'symbolic' of Christ on the cross. Others argue that it is a political allusion to George the third and his unfortunate madness. The only thing that we could all perhaps agree on is that once dead, the little bird is absolutely delicious, particularly when served with a decent Margaux.

Quince - I was once given a home-made jar of this as a Christmas present. I confess I have not spoken to the woman since.

Rudolph the "red nosed" reindeer - is a rather irritating song about Santa Claus's "ninth reindeer". Anyone with even a passing knowledge of reindeer husbandry could tell you that it is impossible to pull a sleigh with an uneven number of caribou. We must therefore assume that the story is entirely fictional and give it the full lack of attention it deserves.

Stockings - should be worn not hung above a fireplace. My suggestion is to leave a note by the tradesman's entrance, that your slumber might not be interrupted by a large man in a red suit.

Toboggan - it is very rare to see a white Christmas in this country but even so it is always sensible to keep one's runners well greased just in case. 

Unitarians - celebrate Christmas with a plate of out of season asparagus. This is one of the very many reasons why I am not a Unitarian.

Visitors - are always very welcome of course and even more welcome once they have left.

Wreath - one should only put one's wreath up on Christmas Eve. There has been a very unfortunate trend in recent years towards people placing them over their brass knockers well in advance of the festive period. Worse still, there is an increasing habit of buying them pre-made from retailers. One of the great pleasures of Christmas is to watch one's wife or employee carefully weaving reeds and garnering the halo with holly. Much joy is lost if one has purchased it from 'Argo' or some other such place.

X - an ancient symbol of peace, a sign of disagreement, the Roman numeral for "10" and the symbol I hope many of you in the NE Somerset region will choose to place next to my name in May 2015.

Yule log - nothing good ever came of an American reinvention of a German festive 'treat'. Wars have been waged over lesser baked goods.

Zwarte Peit - you may remember this chap from the newspapers a few weeks ago. In the Netherlands young children are told that if they have been naughty he will come and kidnap them and no doubt dispose of them shortly afterwards. "Peit" is portrayed as a 'blacked up' minstrel who strikes fear and terror into the hearts of infants across that very flat land. This year, liberal minded folk in the Netherlands have suggested that this whole portrayal seems rather "racist", while others have countered that a terrifying blacked up man running around threatening to steal children is a charming old Flemish tradition. Both very convincing arguments of course.

I have very much enjoyed talking to many of you over the year and thank you for your kind words and thoughtful insults. Whoever you are and however you may celebrate it, I would like to take this opportunity to wish you all a very Happy Christmas and a productive New year.

A Very Rees-Mogg Christmas: Avoid Brueghels on your cards (M is for Magi)

I confess that unlike W.H. Auden, I have never 'got on' with the Flemish masters. The poet (a Christ Church man) who later found fame as a writer on "Four Weddings and a Funeral", immortalised their daubings in his poem Musee des Beaux Arts written in the winter of 1938. In this flaccid, non-rhyming excuse for verse, which pays not the slightest attention to iambic pentameter, Auden implausibly argues that most tragedies, martyrdoms and cataclysms really play out quite unseen. That as Christ is crucified everybody else is too busy buying souvenirs and looking the other way to notice his sacrifice. That when Icarus falls spectacularly from the sky, the sailors of the Mediterranean are too occupied with the rigging to notice his 'epic' tumble. How when great events occur, "there always must be, children who did not specially want it to happen, skating on a pond at the edge of a wood." Nonsense.

The winter scene above by Pieter Brueghel the Younger, is just the sort of bunk Auden was struggling to explain. In this 'painting' the baby Jesus is rendered no more than a dull pink streak on the left hand side of the canvas. Indeed, more prominence is afforded a man carrying a cheap bucket away from a poorly cut hole in the ice than to the Christ child. As he does so, the three crudely painted Magi - Melchior, Caspar and Balthazar - curiously accompanied by a hobbit in a 'brown' dressing gown wait, like oddballs in a bus queue, as two rather effete soldiers in red stockings stand guard close by. The Bible is very specific on the visit of the Three Kings (Matthew 2 verses 1 to 12) and to the best of my recollection, red tights and a man with a bucket, do not feature.

The whole effect is to ridicule the Nativity, while simultaneously turning us into nothing more than 'voyeurs' who must crane our necks to see the action. The Brueghels and their ilk are highly revered by many today, but for my part I have long viewed them as nothing more than medieval 'spot the ball' merchants, endlessly repeating a tired old formula with subject matter that is far beyond their understanding. Speaking very much for myself, I do not wish to be an 'onlooker' - I want to be where the action is, in the front line, drinking in the sights, the sounds and smells of the manger, looking the bewildered Joseph in the eye or gazing upon the magnificent halo of a passing angel.

Indeed, unlike the superb paintings of say Vicente Collado the Flemish 'Masters' seem determined, like so many others who followed them, to take the story of Christ and make it all about themselves.  

With only nine days to go until Christmas, many of you will be suffering the last minute anxiety of cards arriving from people one has forgotten existed. In such circumstances it is very tempting to send one's man out to buy a 'corps commanders reserve' and fire them off without thinking about the imagery on the front. My advice is to take a moment of reflection and look before you affix your postage stamp.

Hopefully, the scene will be relevant to this magical season and the birth of Christ; if it is a picture by any of the Brueghels however, my tip is this: send your man back to the shop, with clearer instructions.

K is for Good King Wenceslaus

Good King Wenceslaus I, the eldest son of the limp and erratic Vratislaus, was the King of Bohemia from 921 until 935, when he was murdered by his brother Boleslav the Cruel. That his fratricidal sibling had such a name should perhaps have served as some warning to the altruistic ruler, but it appears that Wenceslaus, while very 'giving', was a dreadful judge of character. Worse still, there is convincing evidence that he was the progenitor of the very first 'welfare state'. 

In the nine hundred years after his death, the cult of Wenceslaus was to grow and spread across Europe, culminating in the writing of the carol that bears his name.

You are no doubt familiar with the hymn, penned by an Englishman John Mason Neale, which relates how the Good King, looking out one night (on the feast of Stephen) sees a poor man gathering winter fuel and decides to follow him home with a magnificent basket of pine logs, flesh and wine. 

I confess that as a child I found the message of the song more than a little perplexing. While others dwelt on the 'giving' aspect of the tale, it struck me that there was a deeply dubious subtext to the lyric. In essence the third verse suggests that if one forages for wood close to the home of a rich man, one might well be rewarded with a 'state benefit'. 

The carol ends on a cliff-hanger, with the monarch and his trusted servant traipsing through the snow. What happens next is left only to conjecture but presumably the upshot of it all is that the 'poor man' sees that there is an easier way to provide for his family than bothering with all the hoo-haa of going out to work. One can only suppose that the moment the larder was empty he was back at the castle gates, trying to catch Wenceslaus's eye his hand literally out in expectation.

The reason for the Good King's later brutal murder has long been a matter of speculation, but I like to think that having witnessed the nation being brought to the brink of poverty by free meals and winter fuel allowances, Boleslav realised that drastic action needed to be taken and took it upon himself to instigate some 'cuts' of his own. 

Despite his name, Boleslav the Cruel is much revered in the modern day Czech Republic. History, one likes to imagine, will be similarly kind to George Osborne.

A Very Rees-Mogg Christmas: J for "Jingle Bells"

I would rather you didn't. It frightens the horses.

Ban this filth: The Holly and the Ivy.

I confess that I set out to write the 'H' and 'I' segment of this series as a celebration of the old English song The Holly and the Ivy. However,  in the course of my research the true meaning of the lyrics was revealed to me and so instead, I shall briefly 'out' this panoply of filth, that you might ban it from the music room when you gather around the Bechstein on the 25th of December. 

Prior to my enlightenment, I had believed that the song was nothing more than a gay amusement, innocently equating the suffering of Jesus on the cross with the bright colours of the evergreen plants. It seems however that as with so many elements in our modern Christmas, the references to the Messiah were added later. The song itself is 'pagan' and these perennials are not being celebrated. They are being used 'figuratively' as metaphors for acts best left beyond the boudoir door.

The 'holly' is a thinly concealed vision of raw manhood. The 'ivy', which represents womanhood,  is thankfully largely ignored in the text and while modern feminists might feel rather aggrieved that once again they have been overlooked by a clearly misogynistic 11th Century poet, one cannot help feeling that they got off rather lightly.

I shall say no more, lest the truth falls into the 'wrong hands' and spreads sensationally around the prep rooms of minor public schools. You can draw your own conclusions from the text . In the meantime, I have written a stiff rebuke to Breitkopf and Haertel, enclosing my sheet music and demanding reimbursement of eight-pence and a recommendation of a parental certificate . I would suggest that you do the same.