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My congratulations to the Irish EU commissioner Phil Hogan and, by association, to the organisation he so loyally serves.

EU bureaucrats aren’t widely known for their verbal creativity, but Mr Hogan has done much to improve their reputation. In a flash of brilliance, he created a kit phrase that can be used to denigrate any man, woman or child in His creation.

Every advertising hack knows the value of prefab headlines able to fit any product. Two in particular have served many a copywriter with distinction.

One is perfect for promoting any product you can think of: “Not all [INSERT PLURAL OF PRODUCT CATEGORY] are created equal.” Now try to think of a product for which this universal headline wouldn’t work. You can’t, can you? There you go then.

The other headline is more useful for corporate advertising, although at a pinch it could do service elsewhere as well: “What we are not makes us what we are.” Trust me, it works like a charm whoever the ‘we’ happens to be, especially if followed by the tagline “Our people are our best resource.”

I don’t know the names of the geniuses who first came up with these trail-blazing discoveries. I do know Mr Hogan’s name, and he has claimed pride of place next to those anonymous innovators.

Expressing his disapproval of Boris Johnson’s intention to leave the EU, possibly even without permission, Mr Hogan declared that Mr Johnson was no Churchill. As he uttered the phrase, he might not have been aware of its universal potential, not just in relation to Mr Johnson.

For the list of famous people Mr Johnson is not could easily fill the 32 volumes of Encyclopaedia Britannica. For example, he isn’t Julius Caesar, Henry VIII (although there some similarities are discernible), Charles Dickens, Lucian or even Sigmund Freud, Elizabeth II, Friedrich Handel, Mother Theresa – well, you get the gist.

This remind me of the story about a man approaching the manager of Barnum & Bailey with a proposal for an act.

“While I stand on a tightrope with my right foot, I spin 12 hoops on my left leg, juggle 12 balls with my left hand, and play a Bach violin partita with my right hand.”

Both impressed and incredulous, the manager asked his artistic director to go and have a look at that improbable act. The latter returned half an hour later, looking disappointed.

“So how is it?” asked the manager. “Well,” replied the artistic director, “Menuhin he ain’t.”

Mr Hogan must be familiar with this story, for he managed to extract the kernel of its logic and apply it to our prime minister. Churchill he ain’t, and that’s God’s own truth.

Had Mr Hogan stopped at that, he would have earned my endless gratitude for charting a useful shortcut to invective (not that I often find myself stuck for an insult). But unfortunately he proceeded to uncork another put-down, which made me think – turning the tables on Mr Hogan – that he’s no Churchill either, at least not in the area of coining epigrammatic lines.

He contemptuously dismissed Mr Johnson as an “unelected prime minister”, thereby displaying the veneration for elective democracy for which the European Commission is so justly famous.

Reading up on Mr Hogan, I’ve discovered that he was appointed to his first term as EU commissioner and now nominated for a second. The word elected was never mentioned, but it must have been only by oversight.

One could argue that Mr Johnson, though indeed by-passing a general election for a while, at least ascended to his post by an ancient constitutional process.

In that sense, he followed the same path as Leo Varadkar, the Irish prime minister and leader of Mr Hogan’s Fine Gael party, who also was selected by an internal party election two years ago and hasn’t faced a general election since then.

While similar to each other in that respect, both gentlemen are different from Mr Hogan and his EU colleagues in that the latter aren’t held back by the millstone of electoral accountability around their necks.

That, of course, imposes on them the extra responsibility of having to cope with unlimited freedom of action. This justifies their being paid considerably more than either Mr Johnson or Mr Varadkar, and that’s before their generous benefits and pensions are taken into account.

All things considered, aren’t you impressed with Mr Hogan’s adding a new twist to the saying about a kettle and a teapot? I know I am. I’m only sorry that his employment prospects might disappear should the EU collapse after a few other members follow Britain’s suit.

That is, if we do leave – and I’ll have to see it to believe it.

According to unconfirmed reports, President Trump has tendered an offer to buy the Roman Catholic confession and its headquarters in the Vatican city-state.

The offer, which is seen as a friendly takeover, is believed to involve an unspecified cash amount and also share options.

As part of the deal, Donald Trump Sr, Donald Trump Jr, Eric Trump and Jared Kushner will be raised to the college of cardinals, Ivanka Trump will take the veil and be appointed Mother Super-Superior, Pope Francis will join the US administration as Honorary Vice President, while all cardinals, depending on their seniority, will acquire the titles of honorary senators or congressmen.

The rumour mill is abuzz with the news. Apparently, President Trump has struck a deal with Disney, Europe, to redevelop the Vatican site into a theme park provisionally called In God We Trust. The name reflects both the religious and commercial aspects of the facility, emphasising its dual nature.

The site currently occupied by the Vatican Museum will be converted to a casino, with optional prayers offered before every roll of dice or spin of the roulette wheel.

US marines will replace the Swiss guards as the sentinels-cashiers at the Vatican gates, with the price of entry structured to offer sizeable discounts to Roman Catholics. The theme park’s flag will incorporate an amalgamated motif by following the general design of the US flag, but with crosses replacing the stars.

When pressed for confirmation, President Trump declined comment. Instead he posted this tweet: “Where I comes from, the school of hard knockers, no real estate deal is off the table. If a company’s strapped for cash, and I don’t give two flying bucks what kind of company it is, it’s ripe for plucking. God may be real, but the Vatican is real estate. Money talks, bullshit walks.”

The reports appeared after the Danish PM Mette Frederiksen described Trump’s offer to buy Greenland as “absurd”. “I strongly hope that this is not meant seriously,” she added with a humourless smile.

Actually it was, and Mr Trump reacted to Miss Frederiksen’s statement with indignation. “The United States,” he fumed, “is me, and I’m the United States. And you don’t talk to the United States that way.”

“Essentially it’s a large real estate deal, like most things in life. And Denmark is trading at a loss there coz they’re losing almost $700m a year carrying Greenland.

“I tell that Danish broad, listen, I’ll give you the same deal I’d give my own mother. And what does the broad do? She mocks me. Well, I kid you never, nobody mocks the United States and gets away with it.”

However, no plans to occupy Greenland by force seem to be mooted. “That Danish broad,” tweeted the president, “can keep her Greenland and shove it where the sun don’t shine. Well, actually God already done that.”

Depending on the progress of the Vatican takeover, Mr Trump is planning to move on to other ventures. He is reported to be interested in buying Reunion Island from France, Sicily from Italy and Tasmania from Australia. “When I’m hot, I’m real hot,” commented the president.

Some of the acquisitions will be funded by the sale of Alaska back to Russia, with the details being currently thrashed out by e-mails between Donald Trump and “my friend Vlad”.

All in all, a breath – nay a hurricane – of fresh air is blowing through world politics, which are finally being put on a firm commercial footing. In a move long overdue, political chatterboxes have been replaced in the White House by a man of vast business experience.

Such background equips a statesman with the ability to reduce all convoluted complexities of politics to the crystal clarity of a real estate transaction. We all stand to benefit.

Hard as I try, I struggle to learn all the isms and phobias to be shunned.

The moment I figure out the difference between haemophilia and homophobia, paediatrician and paedophile, agism and agility, misogyny and miso soup, a new offence is identified and proscribed.

Being mortally scared of inadvertently offending a vulnerable group of sensitive people, I try to keep up as best I can. After all, moral laws are part of divine revelation, and no one said they were given all at once.

Hence divinely inspired people should be expected to update morality as they go along. And it behoves the rest of us to obey new prescriptions and proscriptions as faithfully as we obey the old ones, earlier vouchsafed first to Moses and then to those multitudes at the Mount.

Those of us who refuse to do so or, worse still, mock the new morality risk public opprobrium. If they happen to be public figures, they may also find themselves under investigation – as the football presenter Gary Lineker has discovered.

His two colleagues on BBC Match of the Day, Danny Murphy and Alan Shearer, are both follicularly challenged or, if you insist on using outdated offensive vocabulary, bald. Hence they belong to a widely abused group requiring especially sensitive treatment.

Yet Lineker (and no report of this offence failed to mention his £1.75 million-a-year salary, a highly relevant fact) saw fit not just to make light of this handicap but actually to mock it. He thereby offended not only his two immediate targets, but all follicularly challenged persons – and also all of us who are out to uphold the standards of new morality.

The presenter discussed a “hair-raising” start to the Premier League season, adding “’unless of course you’re Alan Shearer or Danny Murphy”. He thought that blatant display of hairism was funny, and so did Messrs Shearer and Murphy – or rather they pretended to smile, doubtless trying to suppress the acute pain they felt inwardly.

Predictably, the incident generated numerous complaints from individuals and institutions alike. We, sensitive people, will no longer tolerate offensive remarks. A spokesman for Alopecia UK certainly won’t: “It’s a shame that those in the media,” he stated, “still use that platform in a way that reinforces negativity towards hair loss.”

And, he continued, “In today’s society, it seems that jokes about bald men… can lead to men with hair loss feeling they are not supported when they struggle to come to terms with their change in appearance.”

The BBC is investigating the incident, and none too soon. After all, its own internal guidance states that “The BBC is for everyone and should include everyone whatever their background.”

Presumably, Lineker’s criminal quip has the effect of excluding about half of the adult male population, who’ll now give Match of the Day a wide berth. Since my own bald spot is bigger than Lineker’s, though not as big as Shearer’s and Murphy’s, I hereby undertake never again to watch that programme – or at least not to tell anybody if I do.

We must all of us, follicularly challenged or otherwise, close ranks and fight against hairism – and if I’m the first to come up with this neologism, then I’m proud. Lineker’s crime makes my hair, what’s left of it, stand on end.

We should be vigilant and never forget that everything about modernity must be progressive. Including its madness.

The French have a slang word for the likes of Macron and Trump: collabo, short for collaborator.

The term gained currency during the Nazi occupation of France, but collaboration describes the run-up to the occupation just as accurately, as a synonym of ‘appeasement’.

For, by their craven appeasement of Hitler, culminating at Munich, France and Britain effectively collaborated with the Nazis, a point driven home by the panzers entering Paris on 14 June, 1940.

A lesson was thus taught, but it wasn’t learned. Now, 81 years after Edouard Daladier put his signature on the Munich Treaty, another French president, Manny Macron, is playing footsies with another aggressor with pan-European aspirations, Vlad Putin.

Meeting the Russian chieftain at Brégançon, Manny couldn’t have been more effusive. Obviously, Russia must take her seat at the upcoming G7 meeting, he insisted, that’s beyond doubt – and it’s most unfortunate that she lost her seat in the first place.

At the time that ousting occurred, in 2014, the G7 members stated their reasons succinctly. Russia, they explained, no longer belonged in that body because of her aggression against the Ukraine:

“International law prohibits the acquisition of part or all of another state’s territory through coercion or force. To do so violates the principles upon which the international system is built. We condemn the illegal referendum held in Crimea in violation of Ukraine’s constitution.”

Manny’s urgent desire to reverse that decision must be based on his conviction that since then Russia has reacquired respect for international law. However, the evidence for such a Damascene conversion isn’t so much flimsy as non-existent.

Since that aforementioned referendum, Russia has effectively annexed two vast provinces in East Ukraine, killing 14,000 Ukrainians in the process.

Then there was that unfortunate incident with the Malaysian airliner, an incursion into Syria conducted with characteristic KGB savagery, an uninterrupted string of nuclear threats against the West, full-scale electronic warfare aimed at subverting elections, escalation of hysterical anti-West propaganda unseen since Khrushchev and many other, shall we say, disrespectful developments.

All these are, according to Manny, silly incidentals. As a self-appointed French intellectual, he won’t be side-tracked by facts interfering with a broad historical and cultural vision.

Instead, he came up with two startling discoveries: “Russia,” he pronounced, “is a deeply European country. We believe in this Europe that spreads from Lisbon to Vladivostok.”

Manny’s foster mother Brigitte used to be his school mistress, as it were, in which role she failed miserably. Geography wasn’t a subject she taught, but she still should have made sure that little Manny knew that 3,500 thousand miles of Asia separate Vladivostok from Europe.

Anyway, that was music to Vlad’s ears, and his geography is better than Manny’s: one of his pet subjects is Eurasia, a vast continent that Russia can confidently guide to a bright future or, barring that, just guide tout court.

This is a giant step forward from Gorbachev, who laboured under the same geographic misapprehension when he talked about “our common European home from the Atlantic to Vladivostok”. Manny, who repeated Gorby almost verbatim, must have gone to the Joe Biden school of speechwriting.

But I’m being facetious here. Manny, as an aspiring French intellectual (and French people tend to share that aspiration if they want to get ahead in life), doubtless was talking in cultural, not geographic, terms.

If so, he must be congratulated: his discovery finally settles once and for all the question that all the best minds in Russia herself have been pondering for at least two centuries.

Is Russia Europe, Asia, both, neither, somewhere in between or sui generis? They shouldn’t have been spinning their wheels trying to answer that question in vain. They should have asked Manny instead.

While playing lickspittle to the KGB thug, Manny seems to be undeterred by the lavish financing Vlad provides for Marine Le Pen neo-fascists, a service he extends to all marginal European parties of similar leanings.

That practice put paid to the government in Austria, but it has caused not a shadow of scandal in either Italy or France, where Russia’s involvement is much more sizeable.

Nor has it given Manny any second thoughts, which is surprising in a politician: after all, Le Pen’s party presents a serious electoral challenge to Manny’s own. But, with his approval rating dipping below 30 per cent and the yellow vests still restless, Manny has obviously decided to roll the political dice.

For some time he was the only major European leader who identified Putin’s Russia as a threat. Now Manny has performed a dizzying pirouette, and one can only guess his reasons.

Short-term he may be hoping that Vlad will now marginalise Le Pen and divert his financial, electronic and propaganda support to Manny instead. But I wouldn’t put it past Manny to have a long view as well.

Perhaps he wants to beat Angie Merkel to the European presidency, and he identified sucking up to Putin as a promising avenue to explore. Who knows, when French voters have finally had enough of Manny, he may fill that post and do all he can to make sure Putin’s Europe indeed spreads from Lisbon to Vladivostok – or rather from Vladivostok to Lisbon.

However, beating Angie to that position is in the future. At present, Manny has beaten Trump in the collabo game of mollifying Putin.

Trump too wishes to see Vlad’s charming face at the G7 summit. The reason for that, according to that master rhetorician, is that “A lot of the time we talk about, we talk about Russia, Russia –  because I’ve been to numerous G7 meetings…”

The word ‘because’ implies a causal relationship, which one struggles to discern here. And the fact that the subject of Russia often comes up at G7 meetings is neither here nor there.

I’m sure Trump and his colleagues also talk about, they talk about Iran, Iran and North Korea, North Korea. One would expect Western leaders to discuss countries that pose a threat to the West. Does that mean Iran and North Korea too should be admitted to the G7?

The president blamed Vlad’s expulsion on his predecessor Barack Obama. Putin, Trump said, had “outsmarted him”.

So he did, on numerous occasions – but not on this one. Unless Trump thinks that Vlad actually tricked Obama into expelling Russia from the G8 (as it then was), I’d be tempted to say that just this once no outsmarting took place.

This tune isn’t new for Trump; he has been agitating for Russia’s return to the G7 since 2018. However, he hasn’t done any better than Macron or other European stooges to Putin in proving that the reasons for the expulsion no longer apply.

Now I don’t know if Putin outsmarted Obama, but Manny certainly outsmarted Donny in the collabo stakes: he scooped Trump by one day with this round of shilling for Putin.

Manny should view some documentary footage of the Nazis entering Paris. Perhaps he’ll learn how seamlessly appeasement segues into collaboration.

And I’m still waiting for any Western leader to put forth a counter proposal, that, rather than being readmitted to the G7, Russia should be expelled from the UN Security Council.

Between Alex Salmond and Nicola Sturgeon, there’s something fishy about Scottish politics.

I remember saying this to a well-known conservative columnist in 2012, at the time the Scottish Independence Referendum Act was being mooted.

The Act was soon passed, and two years later the SNP got its referendum, which it lost by 55.3 to 44.7 per cent of the vote.

My interlocutor’s feelings about Scottish independence could be summed up with the words ‘good riddance’, while I was arguing the unionist cause. Even between us, we didn’t manage to solve that problem there and then, and it continued to fester.

The SNP now demands a second referendum, which proves it’s in synch with EU policy: if you don’t like the result, make the people vote again and keep doing so until they get it right.

As a justification for its persistence, the SNP refers to another referendum, the one in 2016, when Britain voted to leave the EU, but the Scots voted to remain by a wide margin.

The Scots, claims the SNP, only agreed to remain in the UK because that way they remained in the EU. Now that prize is no longer on offer, they want to leave the former and seek membership in the latter.

I smell a logical rat there somewhere. The Scots, or rather the SNP, seem to define independence as being dependent on the EU, rather than Britain. Such is the conduit channelling the fiercely individualistic spirit of the people who wear kilts with nothing underneath.

Now I must declare a personal interest, or rather a distinct lack thereof. The only Scottish contributions to our civilisation that enrich my life directly are malt whisky (especially from the Isle of Islay) and James MacMillan, who will in future be mentioned in the same breath as Bach – and I can’t imagine a political situation depriving me of either.

The Scots, however, have much to lose if they aren’t careful about what they wish for. Scotland is currently running a 10 per cent deficit-to-GDP ratio, which is a bill picked up by Her Majesty’s Exchequer.

Since that body will no longer be proffering its chequebook, the Scots must hope that the EU will step in to take up the slack. The hope may well be forlorn.

The EU demands a deficit of no more than three per cent from its members. Though it has been known to show some flexibility in this matter, 10 per cent is way too much even for the EU to swallow.

Hence Scotland will have to introduce severe austerity measures, meaning higher taxes and lower spending. I’ll leave it to the economists to argue about the plausibility of such a drastic deficit reduction. Let’s just say that no European country has found it easy.

Now, apart from whisky and James MacMillan, significant but not sufficient revenue streams, Scotland’s principal export is North Sea oil, which presents a few problems.

First, it’s not a foregone conclusion that Scotland can claim exclusive rights to those reserves simply on the basis of their geographic location. One suspects HMG could make a strong case about those oil fields belonging to the country that paid for their exploration and operation, which is Britain at large, not just one of her constituent parts.

But be that as it may, those reserves are dwindling away, in parallel with oil prices going down. Unless those problems are solved, no drastic deficit reduction is on the cards, barring Nicola Sturgeon whipping out her magic wand.

The EU may also get cold feet about Scotland’s historical tendency towards separatism, which no one believes will go away the moment the Scots have replaced the Union Jack with that stellar circle.

With Britain leaving, the EU will have enough separatist pressures already, thank you very much. It may not want any other member pushing against the walls from the inside.

Then there’s the issue of the euro, which Scotland would have to join, what with the pound sterling no longer available. That means the Scots wouldn’t be able to adjust their monetary policy to suit their specific needs, which may well have Greece-like consequences.

The Scots may regard England as the devil, but at least she’s the one they know. Swapping the United Kingdom for the European Union is fraught with all manner of dangers – can they really want to spite the English so much as to cut off their own nose?

I don’t know. So perhaps a glass of Lagavulin in my hand and one of MacMillan’s Passions on the CD player will make things clearer.

Doesn’t tempus bloody well fugit? Monty Python’s Life of Brian was released 40 years ago, yet it seems like yesterday, I remember it so clearly.

The film caused a scandal in the American Bible Belt, where I then lived. The air was full of words like ‘blasphemy’ and ‘sacrilege’, and the scourges wished upon the heads of the Pythons were as horrific as they were imaginative.

In places like Norway, Ireland and several English counties, the film was banned outright, and Aberystwyth in Wales persisted with the ban until 2009.

Brian is in the news again because The Mail on Sunday has unearthed the archive of Michael Palin, one of the film’s stars. It turns out many scenes were cut out of the script on legal advice – in those days one could still be prosecuted for blasphemy.

One such scene featured a waiter at the Last Supper who tries to seat Jesus and his apostles, telling them: “I can do you two tables for two and two threes.”

In another, King Herod is described as “the world’s worst babysitter”. In yet another, embarrassed Joseph tries to explain the Virgin Birth to his winking-nudging friends.

Just think: a mere 40 years ago such jokes could lead to criminal prosecution. Today hardly anyone would bat an eyelid – we, even practising Christians, have had most of our blasphemy sensors cauterised.

I’m one such, which I admit only on condition that my priest isn’t going to hear about this. I may suffer from a hypertrophied sense of humour, but Life of Brian makes me laugh, rather than see red.

The scenes mentioned above are funny and, by any reasonable standards, rather innocuous. As are the scenes that actually made it into the film.

One I recall involves a parody of the Sermon on the Mount, with multitudes gathering en masse. Since sound couldn’t then be amplified, those in the back struggled to hear properly. Hence the following dialogue took place:

“I think it was ‘Blessed are the cheese-makers’”.

“Ah. What’s so special about the cheese-makers?”

“Well, obviously it’s not meant to be taken literally, it refers to any manufacturers of dairy products.”

I know I’m supposed to be offended by this. But I am not. I just laugh.

Unsmiling people who actually do feel outrage allow such humour less latitude than Jesus himself did. He singled out as an unforgivable sin only blasphemy against the Holy Ghost:

“Wherefore I say unto you, All manner of sin and blasphemy shall be forgiven unto men; but the blasphemy against the Holy Ghost shall not be forgiven unto men.”

One likes to believe that Christianity, unlike, say, Islam, is strong enough to withstand a little good-natured fun poked at its expense. After all, our founding religion has survived schisms, splits, dozens of major heresies and God knows how many minor ones. Christianity also managed to live through vicious persecutions, by emperors, caliphs, commissars et al.

As to mockery within Christendom itself, it goes back to at least the Renaissance. Read Boccaccio, Aretino, Rabelais or Chaucer, who were all Christians, and you’ll find an endless gallery of lustful, venal monks, nuns and priests.

Compared to the output of those writers, Monty Python’s little jokes tickle, rather than cut. Still, some people, those whose Christian sensibilities are stronger than mine and sense of humour weaker, may get offended.

As I would be, if I didn’t find Monty Python hilarious. After all, the capacity to make people laugh must have some redemptive quality.

Much more likely to cause real offence is unfunny mockery for the sake of mockery, such as that exemplified by the French satirist Léo Taxil (d. 1907) and his once popular sneering books The Amusing Bible and The Life of Jesus.

Even worse are supposedly serious, but in fact always spurious, attacks on Christianity by those who don’t even bother to conceal their visceral hatred of it.

One could mention here, inter alia, Polly Toynbee, Ian McEwan, Richard Dawkins, the late Stephen Hawking and Christopher Hitchens, Lewis Wolpert and many others, whose name is legion.

These people take it upon themselves to concoct ‘rational’ arguments against Christianity without bothering to understand it and learn about it.

That task has made stronger thinkers than these sound feeble, as anyone who has read Nietzsche’s book The Anti-Christ will confirm. But at least Nietzsche attacked Christianity for what it actually is, rather than the fake picture of it those other critics see in their mind’s eye.

However, people who are outraged by Life of Brian won’t be dismissed lightly. They maintain that there should be one thing in our anomic, deracinated world that lies beyond the reach of humour. People who ask “Is nothing sacred anymore?” know that question is rhetorical, and they’re upset.

Such staunch believers have strong arguments on their side, and I respect both them and their arguments. In fact, I’ve been known to make some of the same points myself.

Yet – yet I can’t help laughing at Life of Brian. And I can’t for the life of me force myself to be offended by it.    

A writer owes a debt to his readers, and they are within their rights to demand repayment.

The readers agree to offer the writer their time and, in some cases, mental effort. But this is a loan, not a gift.

To repay it, the writer undertakes to offer his readers something worth their time and, in some cases, mental effort. The loan is made up of the principal and accrued interest.

These days, most readers are generous enough, or perhaps realistic enough, to forgo the interest: elegance, verve, refined style, wit, erudition, depth.

But they still must demand a prompt repayment of the principal: lucid, comprehensible communication.

A reader may at times have to make an effort to grasp a complex idea, but he shouldn’t have to make any effort at all trying to force his way through the thicket of turgid, involute style, bad grammar and careless word order.

In other words, a writer is allowed to make his readers stop and think because of what he writes, but not because of how he writes it. If that’s what he does, he’s in default.

In that vein, earlier today I felt cheated by this headline in a daily paper: “Holocaust survivor reveals how the French held thousands of doomed Jews in Paris prison camp and followed Nazi orders with ‘chilling efficiency’ on the 75th anniversary of its liberation.”

I knew that the French, like our own Labour Party, may incline to anti-Semitism, but the headline still gave me a start. For that anniversary is just about now. So, just about now, the French are still running a prison camp in Paris, in which they hold thousands of doomed Jews on Nazi orders.

Fine, some writers do derive the EU’s genealogy from the Third Reich, but surely it’s outrageous to suppose that, 75 years after the liberation of Paris, the French are still following Nazi diktats. I’ve heard of EU tyranny, but this is just too much to absorb.

The two paragraphs above are written in jest. The headline in question actually testifies not to French monstrosity, but to English illiteracy: to make the headline unequivocal, the phrase “on the 75th anniversary of Paris liberation” should have come either at the beginning of the sentence or else after the verb “reveals”.

It took me a few seconds to figure this out, but these were the few seconds I, the reader, shouldn’t have been expected to waste trying to decipher the sentence. The writer cheated me of my time – his loan is thereby foreclosed, and he’s declared professionally bankrupt.

Also, that and another paper used “on his behalf” when they meant “on his part” twice in the same issue. Chaps, when a mistake is made on a person’s behalf, he isn’t to blame, at least not wholly. When it’s a mistake on his part, he is – it’s his own bloody fault.

If you don’t know the difference, you should really look for a different line of work – writing for a living isn’t for you. The same goes for those who use ‘infer’ to mean ‘imply’.

‘Imply’ is what you put in; ‘infer’ is what somebody else takes out. Thus I’ve implied throughout this piece that basic standards of literacy are no longer enforced at our mainstream papers, while you may or may not infer that this is a symptom of a general cultural malaise.

Reasonably clear, isn’t it? Not to some hacks, by the looks of it.

Oh well, I could go on and on, but I can’t wait to get back to my volume of Chesterton’s articles and essays – just to remind myself what a splendid tool English can be, when wielded by a masterly hand.

By the way, confusion between ‘masterly’ and ‘masterful’ is another bugbear of mine, mainly because the former word is regrettably disappearing. That proves yet again that modern vandalism in language and elsewhere is reductive.

Just for the benefit of those professional hacks: ‘masterly’ and ‘masterful’ are cognates but not synonyms. The former means virtuosically skilful; the latter, imperious. And writers who don’t know the difference are neither.

The other day I watched a Russian-language documentary about the British historian Nikolai Tolstoy, Russkiy graf iz angliskoi glubinki (Russian Count from English Backwater).

Tolstoy has written a number of interesting and informative works. But he became famous after the publication of his books The Victims of Yalta (1977) and The Minister and the Massacres (1986).

There he dealt with one of the most shameful betrayals in British history: the forced handover to Stalin of hundreds of thousands of Soviets held in POW camps – and thousands of Cossacks who had never even been Soviet citizens.

The handover, handled with ruthless perfidy, violated not only the Geneva Accords but even the Yalta Treaty – in their haste to mollycoddle Stalin, the British delivered more than he had demanded.

In The Minister and the Massacres, Tolstoy actually named those directly responsible for that monstrosity. One of them, Lord Aldington, sued for defamation.

The British establishment closed ranks behind him, some key documents miraculously disappeared from the archives, and Aldington won his suit. He was awarded £2 million in damages and legal costs, driving Tolstoy into bankruptcy.

My sympathies were and still are with Tolstoy. But the documentary, most of it a running interview, depleted much of the goodwill capital his books had built.

For Tolstoy came across as an ideological Russian chauvinist – possibly because his claim to being any other kind of Russian is less than ironclad. The count was born in England to a Russian father and English mother, and his stepfather was the novelist Patrick O’Brien.

Educated at Wellington College, Sandhurst and Trinity College, Dublin, he speaks his mother tongue, English, in perfect upper-class cadences. As to his ideological tongue, Russian, he hardly speaks it at all, beyond a few heavily accented words.

Still, a man is entitled to consider himself anything he pleases. The heart’s genetic memory reinforced by cultural inclinations may trump linguistic deficiencies and the accident of birth.

However, Count Tolstoy’s heart has led him not only to a Russian identity, but also to Russian jingoism, of the kind that defies reason, morality and – lamentable in such a good historian – even elementary education.

The British, complained Tolstoy, have always treated Russia as a backward country, “a land of tyrants and slaves”. Actually, this last phrase comes almost verbatim from a poem by the Russian poet Lermontov (“Farewell to thee, my squalid Russia, a land of masters, land of slaves…”).

So it wasn’t just the dastardly English who noticed the traditional Russian dichotomy of tyrants and slaves – in fact, the list of such perceptive individuals in Russia herself is endless, and it even includes some of Count Tolstoy’s illustrious ancestors.

It takes a woeful misreading of history not to see that the notion of sovereign individuals is alien to the Russians. Power in the country (vlast’, which is a cognate of the English weal) has always been monocentric, concentrated in the hands of tsar, emperor, general secretary or president.

The parallel centres of power that have always, if at times intermittently, existed in the West, such as aristocracy, councils of elders, church, people’s assemblies, have in Russia always been epiphenomenal extensions of the Weal. That’s why the English enjoyed in the thirteenth century many of the liberties the Russians still don’t possess in the twenty-first.

In any case, it wasn’t because of their supercilious attitude to the Russians that the British committed the crime that Count Tolstoy correctly regards as such, the forced repatriation of people seeking freedom.

But, said Tolstoy, the West is still looking down on the Russians. After they got rid of communism, the West still commits aggression against Russia: the Ukraine is being drawn into NATO, Western soldiers are stationed in the Baltics, missiles are based in Poland – all because Russia is regarded as backward.

At this point, we enter the realm of madness caused by maniacal chauvinism. The West, sir, takes precautions against Russia not because it’s backward, but because it’s dangerous. She has shown willingness to pounce on her neighbours, while keeping the West at bay by nuclear blackmail.

Getting rid of communism also meant getting rid of the communist Soviet empire. The good count touts the former but clearly wishes Russia had kept the latter – one can’t help detecting a logical solecism there.

His chauvinist heart simply can’t accept that the Ukraine and other fiefdoms of the Russian, then Soviet, empire are now sovereign nations. As such, they are free to join NATO, the EU, NAFTA or even, if accepted, the Organisation of African States.

Preventing this exercise of independence by brute force, which is Russia’s wont, shows contempt for international law and common decency.

If Tolstoy could read Russian, he’d know that the official media (all others are suppressed) are spouting nuclear threats against the West in a continuous stream of effluvia.

There are signs that Putin’s kleptofascist gang is preparing to test NATO’s resolve by trying to reconquer the Baltics, all NATO members. Both Putin and Patrushev, his Secretary of the Security Council, issue threats every day, repeating endlessly that a nuclear war is both possible and winnable.

But of course, Putin can do no wrong for the Tolstoys – he’s just the kind of ruler the family cherishes. In fact, the count’s son Dmitri attacked me some time ago for saying about Putin the sort of things I’ve just said. In several idiotically febrile e-mails, he demanded that I go back to Russia (which I left long before he was even born) and fight for its future.

Now, I’m considerably more British than any of the Tolstoy clan are Russian, and Russia’s future interests me only inasmuch as it presents a threat to everything I hold dear. Dmitri (who’s only a quarter-Russian, by the way) and his father feel differently, but one still detects no willingness on their part to settle in their ideological motherland and share its destiny.

But never mind Russia in general, continued Nikolai Tolstoy. Even the Russian peasants were far from being primitive. As proof of their cultural attainment, he held up a shirt beautifully embroidered in the nineteenth century.

I can only put this down to the count’s advanced age, a condition known to cause lachrymose sentimentality. By his chosen criterion, no such thing as a primitive culture exists: even some African tribes with objectionable dietary habits are eminently capable of producing beautiful artefacts.

Russia, boasted Tolstoy, created a great culture, which America, with all her money, has been unable to do. It’s true that during the century in which most of Russia’s great culture was produced, roughly 1820-1920, it was second to none.

Yet the Russian literary language was created by Francophone writers. They transposed into Russian the French lexical and grammatical patterns, much to the amazement of the perceptive writer Prosper Mérimée, who translated Pushkin’s prose into French.

In a letter to Pushkin’s friend Sobolevsky, Mérimée wrote: “I find that Pushkin’s phraseology is completely French… Could it be that you boyars first think in French and then write in Russian?” Well spotted.

Russian culture was created by perhaps one per cent of the population, the thoroughly Westernised elite most of which came from the same social stratum as the Tolstoys. That tiny group produced a sublime sub-set of European culture, and it’s in Europe that their antecedents are to be found.

This isn’t to deny the sui generis genius of Gogol, Tolstoy, Dostoyevsky, Chekhov, Levitan, Prokofiev, Shostakovich and many others. It’s just that the presence of such giants in no way protects a country at large from backwardness – nor prevents it from plunging into evil.

Anyway, it’s pointless arguing serious points with the likes of the Tolstoys. Russia to them isn’t a real country in flesh and blood – it’s an idol and, even worse, an ideology. And when ideology speaks, reason is silenced.

Radio presenter John Humphrys sparked controversy yesterday by suggesting that perhaps Hitler was on to something, that the idea of guillotining a queen could work in Britain, and that the Labour Party ought to be outlawed.

Got you going there, didn’t I? Actually, the controversy was caused by something even more heinous: talking about baby care, Mr Humphrys dared suggest that women “by and large do a better job of it than men.”

He could have dug even a deeper hole for himself by insisting that women also do a better job of giving birth and breastfeeding, but the hole he did dig was deep enough.

The subject came up during a Radio 4 discussion of two TV commercials, one for Volkswagen, the other for Philadelphia cheese, both banned for ‘gender stereotyping’. One commercial showed men being hopeless at baby care; the other depicted women being good at it.

The delinquent Mr Humphrys (far from a conservative, by the way) first defended the ads and then showed no repentance: “To whom is it causing harm if you show a woman sitting next to a baby in a pram? Lots of women sit next to babies in prams. How does this sort of advertising harm people?”

If he has to ask, he doesn’t belong in civilised society, as defined by the Advertising Standards Authority (ASA) and all other progressive bodies and individuals. ASA’s Jessica Tye made that abundantly clear.

Such offensive advertising, she explained – as if patently obvious things needed an explanation! – could lead women astray by affecting their aspirations and career choices.

Implicitly, the danger is that women will start bearing children and looking after them, rather than leaving that task to men or, better still, transsexuals, while they themselves seek rewarding careers as fighter pilots or boxers.

Following a groundswell of indignation at the grassroots, ASA simply had to ban those affronts to humanity. Or perhaps ‘groundswell’ is not only a cliché but also an exaggeration.

All in all, just one person objected to the cheese ad, and a whopping three to the Volkswagen one. But, as I never tire of pointing out, numbers shouldn’t affect a principle.

However, they could perhaps elucidate the principle, as they do in this case. The insanity pandemic infecting our society spreads from top to bottom, not from bottom to top; it’s institutional, not individual.

ASA pulled the commercials after just four cretins found them controversial – out of millions of viewers. Thereby that watchdog caused commercial damage to the advertisers, along with their various agencies and TV stations, but they have only themselves to blame.

The juggernaut of modernity rolls on, and one can’t get into its wheel spokes without getting crushed. All we can do is await new developments with trepidation.

Or else, even better, propose them. In that vein, I think the Arts Council should take a good, long look at all those Virgin and Child paintings befouling our museums. If that’s not gender stereotyping, I don’t know what is.

Such offensive canvases ought to be expurgated and, ideally, burned in a new, progressive Bonfire of the Vanities. Girolamo Savonarola, call your office.

There’s a story that makes me think of aspiring philosophers. A young man, lost in the countryside, asks a crusty old local how to reach his destination. “If you want to get there,” says the man, “I wouldn’t start from here.”

Like that youngster, a philosopher travels the road to a destination, truth. Sometimes he runs, sometimes he walks, sometimes he crawls – and his chances of getting where he’s going may be better or worse. But they’ll be non-existent if he doesn’t get on that road at all.

This line of thought is inspired by the obituaries for Prof. Agnes Heller, describing her as a remarkable woman and a significant philosopher. Well, one out of two isn’t bad.

A Holocaust survivor whom neither the Nazis nor the communists in her native Hungary could break, and who lived to 90, remaining active until the last moment, indeed has to be an amazing person.

Such people are rare, but real philosophers are rarer still, and it takes more than a lifelong study to be one. More even than teaching the subject and writing the usual quota of books, although these seem to be sufficient qualifications nowadays.

A real philosopher finds the road to truth and signposts it for others. To do so, he has to start from the right place.

Prof. Heller’s formative influences are listed as Marx, Lukács, Freud and Hegel. The poor woman never had a chance: with mentors like those, she was lost before she left.

Her confusion is evident from the task she set for herself: “I promised myself to solve the dirty secret of the 20th century, the secret of the unheard-of mass murders, of several million corpses ‘produced’ by genocides, by the Holocaust, and all of them in times of modern humanism and enlightenment.”

Just to think she was so close to the perfect starting point and yet missed it by a mile. All she had to do was replace the words “in times” at the end of her sentence with the word ‘because’. Then suddenly she would have seen the road sign TRUTH THIS WAY.

According to one obituary, Prof. Heller started “from the view that modernity is founded on freedom.” It may be or may not be. But in either case, freedom isn’t an absolute – when it comes up, one is within one’s rights to ask a few probing questions, such as ‘freedom for whom, from what, from whom and to do what?’

For example, freedom from political oppression is desirable, but freedom from just laws isn’t. Freedom for thinkers is essential, but freedom for criminals is in itself criminal. Freedom from evil prejudices is creative, freedom from good ones is destructive. Freedom from biases may or may not be clever, but freedom from presuppositions is always dumb – and so forth.

Since Prof. Heller clearly equated Enlightenment humanism with freedom, one wonders how she would have fielded such subversive questions. Not very convincingly, is my guess.

She didn’t realise that the principal desiderata of the ‘Enlightenment’ were destructive.

Ostensibly les philosophes and their students targeted l’Ancien Régime, but in fact they set out to annihilate ancien everything: religion, metaphysical (which is to say real) philosophy, sound political thought, social structures and conventions, morality, law, understanding of man’s nature and his place in this world, the very concept of reality.

In that undertaking they succeeded famously. Where they, along with their heirs, failed miserably is in the attempt to build a solid replacement structure on the ruins. They placed man in the spot hitherto occupied by God, at the centre of the universe. As a result, man’s head first swelled and then imploded.

To replace God, even in secular life, man had to be godlike: perfect and sinless, only made imperfect and sinful by the dastardly ancien everything (see above). Remove those offensive obstacles, and Rousseau’s view of man perfect in his primordial beauty would be vindicated.

Man was no longer fallen and therefore fallible. He was both perfect and, tautologically, perfectible.

But Rousseau’s view was a gross and, more important, demonstrable fallacy. The demonstration came from all those things that vexed Prof. Heller so: “several million corpses ‘produced’ by genocides, by the Holocaust”.

The ‘Enlightenment’ empowered man to be the sole judge of his actions; it dispensed with the arbitrage of a supreme authority infinitely higher than man. Fair enough, some people can indeed be trusted to be both players and referees. But they are in an infinitesimal minority – most can’t navigate their way through life without a guiding hand.

Prof. Heller endured much suffering from fascism and communism, but she failed to notice their genealogy. Yet neither of them had existed before the ‘Enlightenment’, and this isn’t a case of post hoc, ergo propter hoc.

The Enlightenment removed the adhesive bond of “neither Jew, nor Greek” universalism, thereby encouraging divisiveness. And it warped serious thought by divesting it of teleological striving for the absolute. Man’s thought no longer followed a brightly lit road; it began to meander in the dark.

Thereby the ‘Enlightenment’ opened the sluice gates in the stream of unbounded evil, while shutting off all the intellectual byways. Man lost the ability both to sense evil and to think it through.

In due course, humanist modernity bifurcated into two strains: predominately philistine and predominantly nihilist. Since both are materialist and at the same time equally hostile to the world hated by the ‘Enlightenment’, ‘predominantly’ is the key word: the philistines are possessed of some nihilist animus, and vice versa.

The philistines have replaced real love with love of material possessions; the nihilists replaced it with hatred. But the important thing is that both have replaced it.

In that undertaking they join forces, although the nihilists’ contribution is more immediately obvious: red is a more visible colour than grey.

A real philosopher deals with first causes and last things. As a by-product, that enables him to understand derivative causes and quotidian things – such as in this case the carnage perpetrated by post-‘Enlightenment’ modernity.

Where others see an accidental deviation, he sees causation; where others see isolated events, he sees the links in the chain binding them all. Prof. Heller wasn’t such a philosopher – but she was a remarkable woman nonetheless. RIP.