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Since modernity is dedicated to the advancement of the common man, it has to champion common tastes.

Common isn’t necessarily the same as vulgar but, in the absence of strong discouragement, it may gravitate in that direction. And, if encouraged, it definitely will.

The US, the first and most successful state of modernity, provides a useful – if far from the only – illustration of this tendency. Western European countries, after all, benefit from centuries of aristocratic culture. The US, on the other hand, was explicitly instituted as a challenge to that culture, if not its outright rejection.

“Repudiation of Europe,” the novelist John Dos Passos once wrote, “is, after all, America’s main excuse for being.” Since, in the West, it’s Europe that’s the historical depository of taste, manners and civility, such repudiation is fraught with dire consequences – especially if elevated to the status of ideology.

This isn’t to deny that many Americans, in alas steadily decreasing numbers, are civilised people. But even those mavericks are aware that vulgarity of language, manners and dress acts as a badge in their country, or else a password securing admission into the inner sanctum.

Nowhere is this more noticeable than in politics. The British, whose vulgarity is otherwise rapidly catching up with the Americans’, still cherish the institution of a monarchy reigning through, or rather in, parliament.

That imposes some vestiges of style on our parliamentary and electoral politics, leaving Britons amused, not always good-naturedly, by the vulgar spectacles of American primaries, party conferences, debates and political campaigning. The very length of US presidential campaigns, typically restarting the day after the inauguration, is a source of much mirth in Britain.

Our politicians may be – as a rule are – corrupt in every moral and intellectual sense, but at least they try, with variable success, to maintain some veneer of civilised style. This is reflected in their campaigns, devoid of any serious substance though they usually are.

For one thing, we ban political advertising on TV, a medium that encourages vulgarity like no other. Rather than political campaigners flashing their perfect dentistry on the box, we have middle-aged ladies and gentlemen with blue, red or yellow rosettes pinned to their Barbours knocking on doors and politely asking the residents to vote a certain way.

Sometimes the Barbours, tweeds and sensible shoes give way to more proletarian attire, but at least some clothes are universally present. Not so in America.

There, some celebrities, including Sarah Silverman, Mark Ruffalo, Amy Schumer, Chris Rock and Naomi Campbell, have appeared naked in a clip encouraging people to cast their postal vote early. Surprisingly, they didn’t tell them to vote not only early but also often.

Nor did they suggest how their viewers should vote, but there was no need. All the nudists are known as left-wingers and Trump haters.

Somehow the idea has settled in that casual exhibitionism is a valid way of getting serious points across. Given half the chance, celebrities whip their clothes off as a signal of their belonging in the ranks of fully paid-up vulgarians.

In this case, their pretext for practising what used to be diagnosed as a sexual perversion is the concept of a ‘naked ballot’. This is a ballot form left uncounted because it isn’t properly concealed in the envelope.

The pretext is rather flimsy and far-fetched. Even though I haven’t done any advertising for years, I’m sure it would only take me a few minutes to come up with a dozen tasteful and more interesting ways of communicating the same message.

But of course these celebrities vindicated Marshall McLuhan by proving that the medium is the message. In this case the medium was their nudity catering to the onanistic fantasies of their viewers, vulgar and proud of their vulgarity.

I’m surprised they stopped at mere flashing. I could suggest other ways of using their bodies to make a point. They could have, for example, engaged in intercourse on camera, symbolising either the unity of all Biden supporters or else the outrages perpetrated by Trump on the country.

But even in its actual form, that obscene show lowered the tone of this campaign at a time when one wouldn’t have thought it could be lowered even further. And the tone isn’t the only problem.

Vulgarity reigns supreme so far, but it may yet cede that leadership position to brutality. A recent poll shows that 51 per cent don’t think that Americans will accept the outcome of the election as legitimate, while 56 per cent expect blood in the streets whatever the outcome.

I can’t say I’m surprised. Rampant vulgarity comes at a price – it strips politics of its dignity and solemnity, reducing it to the level of a brawl in a pole-dancing joint. Yet some pomp and circumstance are necessary to add an air of majesty to politics, raising it above suspicions of double dealing and fraud.

And, I hate to break the news to my American friends, Sarah Silverman’s tits, impressive though they are, don’t qualify as pomp and circumstance. However, when bared in public, they do qualify as a lamentable display of vulgarity.

“No other qualifications required. Join the board of a FTSE 100 company and enjoy making millions in a congenial multicultural environment.”

No, this isn’t a real ad in the Appointments section of the Financial Times. But it will be if Legal & General has its way.

L&G is one of Britain’s biggest institutional investors that manages more than £1.2 trillion in assets, mostly on behalf of pension funds, and owns a chunk of most British blue-chip companies. That gives it hefty clout, which it’s prepared to use for blackmail purposes.

Its powers that be cast an eye over the demographics of FTSE 100 directors and issued a collective gasp: 37 out of 100 had all-white boards! There can be only one reason for that inequity: structural or institutional racism (I’m still waiting for someone to explain the difference).

They then used their formidable powers of logical reasoning to establish an ironclad link between that outrage and the inspiration behind the BLM movement:

“The horrifying killing of George Floyd and so many others has led many institutional investors to think much more seriously about structural racism and inequality,” stated the company’s communiqué.

Well, not on our watch, said L&G. The company then sent what’s effectively a blackmail note to all the FTSE 100 companies and, for good measure, to US companies in the S&P 500 register. Unless they put at least one BAME (B for preference) member on their board by 1 January, 2022, L&G will vote their boards out.

Somewhere in the background lurked the unspoken, but nonetheless real, threat that all those trillions will find other homes unless those structural/institutional racists comply. Now I do apologise for using so many acronyms, but those initials, L&G, BAME, BLM, fit together so snugly as to become both inseparable and indispensable.

If anyone still thinks that big business is inherently conservative, this latest development should dispel that misapprehension. In fact, the moneybags’ record in that department shows exactly the opposite.

The two evil regimes of modernity, Bolshevik Russia and Nazi Germany, weren’t short of financial support both internally and from abroad. Many of Russia’s richest men, such as the textile magnate Savva Morozov, pumped billions into the Bolsheviks’ coffers, while assorted German bankers and industrialists provided the same service for the Nazis.

At least, all those Krupps, Thyssens and Porsches could claim they were trying to thwart the communist threat. Many Wall Street firms funded the two satanic regimes out of unalloyed greed, which is deplorable but borderline understandable. (For details, refer to the extensively researched books by the Stanford University professor Anthony Sutton, Wall Street and the Bolshevik Revolution and Wall Street and the Rise of Hitler.)

However, few of those sorely misguided individuals, some of whom paid for their mistakes with their freedom or lives, were ideologically committed to the causes they bankrolled.

L&G is different: the company doesn’t just trail in the wake of the BLM movement, but pushes its way to the front. Now, I seldom resort to arguments starting with the words “there ought to be a law against…”, but in this case I’ll make an exception.

L&G has a legal and moral responsibility to three groups only: their investors, shareholders and employees. The company is remiss in its duty if it adopts policies detrimental to all three, as it does in this case.

Seeing that I’m in the mood to refer people to other men’s writing, L&G’s bigwigs ought to read books by the American philosopher and sociologist Thomas Sowell, incidentally black himself.

Immune to charges of racism, Prof. Sowell exposed, reams of data in hand, the inanity of L&G-type thinking decades ago. Having read his ground-breaking research, I can assure L&G that no successful company, much less a FTSE 100 one, could afford to indulge in discriminatory practices even if its management were so inclined.

Companies compete not just for markets but also for talent. They have a vested interest, measurable in pounds and pence, in elevating to the decision-making positions those best qualified to make decisions.

Where there is no profit motive involved, shows Prof. Sowell, for example in public institutions, discrimination is more likely. Bigots there don’t pay their own money for the privilege to indulge in bigotry.

The picture of corporate life painted by L&G’s fecund minds is fake in every detail. Successful companies don’t hold back talented black executives just because they are black. If they lack BAME board members, it’s because no suitable candidates have emerged – it’s as simple as that.

In fact, L&G refutes itself with its own data. After all, if only 37 of the FTSE 100 companies have no black directors, that means the remaining 63, almost two-thirds, have them. Are they more broadminded? Or just lucky to have talented blacks on their staffs?

Cutting to the chase, L&G is calling for promoting less capable candidates, and hence stunting the more capable ones, for spurious ideological reasons. This is called reverse discrimination in Britain, affirmative action in the US and sheer idiocy in either country.

Less capable directors will make less profitable decisions, hurting their own shareholders and staffs, along with the three L&G groups I mentioned earlier, those the company has a moral and legal obligation to protect.

So yes, there ought to be a law against it. Meanwhile, until one is found and applied, I propose that the company’s name should be changed to Illegal & General.

P.S. The Dutch don’t want Britain to claim sole credit for cretinism. Ton Koopman’s Amsterdam Baroque Orchestra has just been denied government funding because of its lamentable lack of diversity. Personally, I haven’t seen many black musicians specialising in 18^th century music, but perhaps Dutch ministers boast a wider experience than mine. Actually, I’d deny Koopman any funds purely for artistic reasons, but that’s a separate argument. 

This question, often in the back of my mind, has been pushed to the forefront by the obituaries of the Tory journalist Sir Peregrine Worsthorne, who died two days ago at the venerable age of 96.

He emerges from the obituaries as an entertaining but lightweight writer, which, for a change, tallies with my own view of his work. And all obits agree that Sir Peregrine was a quintessential, true-blue Tory.

That, however, raises the question in the title, and it isn’t easy to answer. The same question, by the way, is posed implicitly by another entertaining and lightweight writer, Sasha Swire, the author of Diary of an MP’s Wife.

She argues that neither David Cameron nor George Osborne, nor indeed anyone else other than the Swires, is really a Tory. She identifies many such impostors within Tory ranks, but without bothering to define what it is that makes a Tory. Supposedly that goes without saying.

It doesn’t. For Lady Swire’s definition of a Tory must be very different from mine. Hers, for example, doesn’t clash with supporting homomarriage, which both she and her husband did, whereas mine does.

Then again, Sir Peregrine also tended to define his politics apophatically, from the negative. “I was never a Thatcherite,” he kept saying, with ample justification. After all, as far back as in 1958 he called on all Tories to “pledge allegiance to the welfare state”, which isn’t a pledge Margaret Thatcher would have countenanced.

Sir Peregrine once brilliantly described Thatcherism as “bourgeois triumphalism”, the implication being that Thatcher was a Tory in name only. True, she was a Whiggish radical par excellence, and Worsthorne was right to identify the essential class element in Toryism.

Alas, however, that class has been relegated to the status of a Ye Olde England period piece. For all practical, political purposes it’s dead, and so is the political movement it spun. Not only Thatcher but all Tory politicians are these days Tories in name only.

When the modern Tory party was instituted in the 19^th century, it was, not to cut too fine a point, the party of aristocracy and landed gentry. The Tories believed in a social order based on traditional hierarchy, although not without flexibility.

Their attitude to the lower classes was paternalistic, akin to that of a father who feels that even his unsuccessful child deserves love. Since the lower classes were mostly employed in agriculture and nascent industry, Tory paternalism extended to those fields, taking the shape of what today we call protectionism.

In other words, Toryism was the flesh of the flesh and the blood of the blood of the aristocratic order. Hence, when Disraeli was coming up through the party ranks as its most brilliant mind, the only objection to making him the leader was that he wasn’t a “gentleman”, meaning not the owner of a baronial estate.

Since Disraeli’s claims could no longer be denied, the “gentlemen” in the party found a simple solution: they gave Disraeli a sizeable estate in Buckinghamshire, making him the Earl of Beaconsfield. Only then was he deemed qualified to lead his party.

All that is lovely, but it’s conspicuously lacking in contemporary relevance. If the essence of traditional Tory loyalties was adequately described as God, King and Country, the first two legs of that tripod have been knocked out by “bourgeois triumphalism”. That surely predated Margaret Thatcher, although she raised it to a new level.

The social, cultural and political soil in which Toryism used to grow so luxuriantly was sown with coarse salt to render it barren. Toryism qua Toryism predictably died, but the name hung on, an emptied shell to be filled with new content.

Such content is on offer, but it’s hardly uniform and not at all Tory, in the true meaning of the word. In order to function as a viable political force, erstwhile Tories had to become something else.

The menu of available options is extensive, designed to satisfy every taste. Tories can nowadays be neo-conservatives, non-conservatives, American-style conservatives, socialists, liberals, blood-and-soil nationalists, libertarians, Thatcherite Whigs. The only thing they can no longer be is Tories.

That’s why the same charge as the one Lady Swire levelled against Dave and George, and Sir Peregrine against a much wider group, can be legitimately levelled against just about any prominent Tory politician.

They can be all sorts of things, admirable or otherwise, but they can’t be Tories. Oxygen has been sucked out of the air they used to breathe.

That doesn’t mean real Tories are extinct. They aren’t, and I know quite a few. However, they all realise they are anachronisms, who can no longer exert serious influence on their country’s culture, mores – and certainly her politics. Being a Tory at all these days means being a reactionary, which sounds like a swear word to a modern ear.

Whitehall and Downing Street are off limits for Tories, for ever, as it now seems. Hence people who regard themselves as real Tories and still play a role in political life may effortlessly “pledge allegiance to the welfare state”, like Sir Peregrine, or campaign for homomarriage, like poor Sir Hugo Swire.

Toryism has become a church so broad that no faith is anywhere discernible. And even old-style Tory eccentrics, like Sir Peregrine, are fading away.

Sir Peregrine Worsthorne, RIP.

Bad news is hitting us from every angle, like torrential rain swirled about by a tornado. Yet at times some good news lightens up the gloom, a sudden ray of sunshine breaking through the darkness.

That’s how I felt on reading that my good friend Vlad Putin had been nominated for the Nobel Peace Prize. Seldom has there been a worthier, more deserving candidate. The other 316 nominees, I thought, were there merely to make up the numbers.

Yet I’ve eschewed a premature celebration, partly because I’m afraid to put the jinx in and partly because I remember that, historically, not all candidates who merited this distinction actually received it.

This goes for all Nobel Prizes, emphatically including the one for literature. Just compare the two groups, those who got it and those who didn’t.

Group 1: Sully Prudhomme, Theodor Mommsen, Bjornstjern Bjornson, Gabriela Mistral, Jose Echeragay, Giosue Carducci, Rudolf Christoph Eucken, Selma Lagerlof, Paul Heyse, Herta Müller, Elfriede Jelinek, Dario Fo.

Group 2: Leo Tolstoy, Anton Chekhov, Mark Twain, James Joyce, Marcel Proust, Henrik Ibsen, Graham Greene, Vladimir Nabokov, Jorge Luis Borges, W.H. Auden, Robert Frost.

See what I mean? And if you think the Peace Prize has escaped such travesties, you have another think coming. 

For example, Vladimir Lenin, nominated in 1917, was unjustly ignored. The injustice was glaring: after all, the great leader had set out to eliminate whole classes standing in the way of the ultimate peace, that of a communist paradise on Earth.

Granted, the Nobel Committee might have doubted that he would have the courage of his convictions. Such is the lot of many great visionaries: people doubt either the sincerity of their beliefs or the strength of their determination.

Lenin went on to put those Swedes to shame by annihilating millions of obstacles to peace, those he called “especially noxious insects”: priests, peasants, industrialists, businessmen, engineers, artisans and artists, philosophers, scientists and most university graduates.

Alas, by the time the Committee realised its mistake it was too late: Putin’s precursor died, of syphilis, a mere seven years after he had been so shockingly overlooked.

His successor, Stalin, went Lenin one better by being nominated twice, in 1945 and 1948, on either side of the second artificial famine he organised in Russia and in the midst of yet another great purge designed to do away with every extant threat to peace, particularly Jews.

Yet, in spite of those efforts, Stalin too got bypassed – twice. That in spite of his having singlehandedly defeated Hitler, his partner in the early days of the Second World War. (Current Russian history books downplay the partnership bit, while emphasising the singlehanded part.)

Stalin’s second-in-command, Vyacheslav Molotov, also got his nyet from the Nobel Committee in 1948, when he was nominated for his “contribution to creating a new system of international relations”, otherwise known as the Cold War.

Hitler received his nomination in 1939, and he too came up short – just three months before he, in alliance with Stalin, set out to preempt the deadly threat to world peace posed by Poland. Had the Committee not jumped the gun, as it were, Hitler would have been a shoo-in.

Another one of Hitler’s allies, Benito Mussolini, also got a nomination. That came in 1935, the year he led a peace crusade against Ethiopia and, for all practical purposes, nationalised Italy’s economy. Either achievement was a sufficient qualification, yet justice seldom vanquishes in this world.

However, the more recent trend in Nobel Peace Prizes suggests that Vlad is in with at least a loud shout. In 1994 the Prize was awarded to Yasser Arafat, “for his efforts to create peace in the Middle East”.  

The trend in question is inspired by the adage si vis pacem, para bellum enunciated by the Roman writer Vegetius – if you want peace, prepare for war. Or better still, wage one, goes the modern embellishment.

Thus Arafat qualified by having masterminded numerous terrorist acts against Israeli and Western targets, and also by having turned Lebanon and Jordan into blood-soaked battlegrounds. That established his credentials as a fighter for peace worthy of the highest accolade.

It’s in light of this welcome development in the Committee’s thinking that I believe Vlad has the Peace Prize sewn up. After all, he can take sole credit for three wars, those in Chechnya, Georgia and the Ukraine, along with a shared credit for the war in Syria.

Since every war in history has ended in some kind of peace, Vlad has worked tirelessly to make the world more peaceful. In the process, he has been diligently uprooting individual weeds stunting the growth of peace in the world. In pursuit of that noble agricultural aim, he hasn’t balked at using effective herbicides, such as thallium, polonium, gelsemium and novichok – surely such dedication can’t go unrewarded?

In eager anticipation, I’m hereby extending my heartiest, if ever so slightly premature, congratulations to my good friend. Keep up the good work, Vlad! All peace lovers the world over are rooting for you.

When today’s presidential candidates make Richard Nixon look like an exemplar of probity, it’s not just the US but all of us who are in trouble.

The Nixon who was such an exemplar isn’t the Watergate culprit, but the dignified man who lost the 1960 election to Kennedy. Or rather had the election stolen from him.

What happened then in several swing states, especially in Illinois, wasn’t just election fraud. It was election robbery.

When Richard Daley, Chicago’s Mafioso mayor, realised that the outcome more or less hinged on Illinois, and Nixon was ahead in the polls there, he told Kennedy not to worry. I’ll deliver Illinois, Mr President, he promised.

Daley was as good as his word. He had crowds of Democratic voters bussed from one precinct to another, with coachloads of votes bolstering Kennedy at each stop. That swung the election Kennedy’s way.

Nixon’s advisers begged their man to launch a legal challenge, which they were certain he’d win. Yet the candidate refused. The institution of presidency, he said, is more important than the person of a president. And a legal challenge would undermine that institution, something he wasn’t prepared to do.

I also remember another former president, Ronald Reagan, debating against Jimmy Carter. The Democrats’ strategy in that election was based on Reagan’s distaste for the Soviet Union, which, they threatened at every turn, would plunge America into a World War directly Reagan was elected.

That imminent danger was enunciated by my tennis partner Ross over a beer and, to a somewhat broader audience and in more histrionic tones, by Carter during the presidential debate. In response, Reagan gave his good-natured chuckle and said indulgently, like a grown-up talking to a naughty child: “There we go again”. End of argument. Also the end of that Democratic challenge.

Watching the slanging match between Trump and Biden the other day, I couldn’t help lamenting how different presidential candidates are these days. Actually, that was my first thought. The second, less obvious but more distressing, was that it’s not just the candidates who are different. It’s the country.

One is reminded that the etymological link between civility and civilisation transcends linguistics. For the absence of the former is a symptom of malaise in the latter.

When two candidates can’t debate as civilised men, the problem cuts deeper than politics. It betokens an existential collapse.

“The style is the man”, said Georges Buffon (Le style, c’est l’homme même). If so, then the two men contesting the presidential election are two drunken louts bumping foreheads in a bar: “Oh yeah?” “Yeah!” “Says who?” “Says I!” “So go @$&^ yourself!” “&%@£ you, you @£$%!” “So’s your mother!”

Biden actually threw more brawling epithets, along the lines of “liar”, “fool”, “racist”, “clown” and so forth. But Trump was no better. He responded by interrupting Biden every second, sputtering ad hominems at his opponent along with his whole family, and coming across as an unsmiling thug permanently on the threshold of committing grievous bodily harm.

The consensus in the US is that the election is Biden’s to lose. As long as he manages to keep his staggering incompetence a secret, he’ll walk it.

In that sense, Biden did well in the debate. He did come across as a boorish nonentity, but at least not a demented one.

However, had Trump replaced thuggish savagery with proper debating nous, he could have skewered Biden. For, buried underneath the foul manure of mutual insults was the barely discernible kernel of real argument – and Trump was right.

For, since I left in 1988, American politics has changed not only in rhetorical style but also in substance. The whole political spectrum has shifted leftwards, with the bulk of the Democratic Party now coloured a bright red. Yesterday’s lunatic fringe has become today’s mainstream.

And the mainstream will carry President Biden in its current because he is no Trump, a maverick who neither feels indebted to his party nor cares how many feathers he ruffles. As a machine politician, a party man first and foremost, Biden won’t have any option but to drift along – with disastrous consequences for America.

A few well-chosen remarks by Trump could have drawn Biden out, showing him for what he is: the figurehead of the country’s most sweeping political upheaval since the war, possibly ever.

Much more useful than gloating over Biden’s family problems would have been an insistence on straight answers to some vital questions.

For example, does Biden realise that Obamacare is a snowball of nationalisation that rolls down the slope, gathering momentum and growing in size until it becomes an unwieldy, NHS-like Leviathan? Had the answer been no, it would have taken but a sentence or two to drive the point home.

Does Biden acknowledge that identity politics, the Democrats’ current stock in trade, is the direct cause of the race riots, turning America into the world’s laughingstock and threatening to turn her into its powder keg? Again, a couple of simple, strong arguments would have sufficed.

Instead Trump let Biden get away with saying, mendaciously and inanely, that Antifa is “an idea, not an organisation”.  Quite, Joe, I would have said. So was Marxism, which ought to remind us that evil ideas become evil organisations at the drop of a bomb. Do you agree that Antifa is one such idea that has already become one such organisation? No? QED.

Do I repudiate armed supremacist militias taking to the streets? I do, provided that you accept what’s obvious to everyone: it’s Antifa that acts and those militias that react. The initiative comes from the Marxist subversives, those hailed by your party as courageous freedom fighters.

And do you disavow your party’s pet plan to pack the Supreme Court, meaning to add as many socialist members it would take to turn the Court into an extension of a socialist government? Do you agree that this plan represents constitutional vandalism at its most subversive? You refuse to answer? I’ll take it as a yes then.

Are you prepared to accept on faith that your party’s cherished New Green Deal is based on solid scientific evidence? And even if you do, which in itself is indefensible, where’s the money going to come from, Joe? Another trillion or two added to the public debt? Do you think we can afford that, especially in an economy already reeling from Covid?

Drawn onto that kind of battleground, Biden would have instantly come across as the nincompoop he is, one in the pocket of the most dangerous political movement in US history. The goal was gaping, yet Trump managed to miss it from close range.

Rather than highlighting the evil nature of Biden’s puppet masters, Trump let his barbaric nature take over. Instead of the rapier of wit and the sword of reason he relied on the cudgel of thuggery, missing his target every time.

Richard Nixon or Ronald Reagan would have buried someone like Biden there and then. But then they belong to an era gone, a civilisation lost – or at best teetering on the edge of the abyss.

God evidently can no longer save the Earth from warm weather unaided, as he did during much warmer periods in the past. But not to worry: help is on the way.

In his forthcoming documentary, HRH Prince William takes on the daunting task normally reserved for the deity. It’s his “duty”, he says, to leave the planet (presumably the Earth) in better health for future generations: “Someone has to put their head above the parapet and say, I care about this.”

Leaving aside the hackneyed phrasing and the woke use of a plural pronoun after a singular antecedent, one wonders how closely HRH follows the news. Not very, is my guess, if he really thinks we suffer from a dearth of Greta clones.

What we really are short of is serious discussion of the issues involved, one that doesn’t depend on the fraud of ignoring any evidence contradicting woke pieties. Instead we get hysterical girls with learning difficulties sputtering spittle and screaming ignorant bilge at the top of their voices.

The latest spur to Wills’s restless conscience was applied by his trips to Pakistan and Tanzania. In the former, he saw the adverse effects of melting mountain ice and interpreted that unfortunate development in the light of his extensive knowledge of climatology, volcanology, astrophysics, history and at least a dozen related disciplines.

The end is nigh, a disaster is looming, explained Wills. And then he segued into a rhetorical device he has never heard of – anaphora, the repetition of the same word at the beginning of each sentence:

“And yet, we still don’t seem to be picking up the pace and understanding it quick enough.

“And I think the young are really getting it.

“And the younger generation are really wanting more and more people to do stuff and want more action.”

Wills didn’t specify how young one has to be to “get it”, but he didn’t have to bother. For the only things the young of any age “get” better than their elders is drunk and laid, while the only “stuff” they do better comes in little packets bought in dark alleys.

If you wish to contest this generalisation, by all means particularise it. Try to remember yourself as you were, say, at 20. Other than the things I mentioned, what was it that you “got” then, but have since forgotten? Conversely, I bet you understand more things now than you did at a tender age. I for one blush with embarrassment recalling what an idiot I was.

If an issue is predominantly supported by the young, even those less crazy and better educated than Greta (whom Wills admires), then the safe assumption is that it’s ridiculous. The young do in fact understand things “quick enough” (someone ought to have taught Wills the difference between adjectives and adverbs), but hardly ever deep enough.

Then William and Kate were filmed hugging rhinos and feeding carrots to Tanzanian children… sorry, got that wrong. It was the other way around, of course.

That gave HRH Wills an opportunity to rail against big game hunters, especially poachers, while showing that zoology is yet another subject he has mastered: “They want this horn, which is effectively nail, and that is all it is, it’s fingernail. This is where the horn belongs, on a live rhino and that’s where it should stay.”

What if the animal dies of old age? Can we please have the horn then?

In any case, just a fingernail a rhino’s horn may be, but it’s not the same as those adorning our hands. That particular fingernail belongs to a wild animal who, given half the chance, will eviscerate anyone coming close.

If rhinos were to become extinct, I wouldn’t shed many tears. After all, some 99 per cent of the creatures who have ever inhabited “the planet” are no longer with us, and somehow we’ve managed to muddle through.

Speaking of tears, that’s what Wills had to fight back courageously when shown a collection of 43,000 poached elephant tusks impounded in Tanzania. Expressing himself with his customary elegance, HRH said: “It’s a mind-blowing number of tusks, it really is. You can’t get your head around it.”

Every sign points at the lamentable fact that our future king really can’t get his head around anything other than the latest wokish fad. Alas, he doesn’t just look like his late mother.

And he certainly isn’t like his grandmother, who, on her coronation, took the oath to uphold Christianity. One of its fundamental tenets, first enunciated in Genesis, is that everything in life was created to serve man, and only for that purpose.

That doesn’t mean that poaching elephants, or indeed any other animals, should be encouraged or indeed allowed. Hunting in general should follow rules that enforce a responsible and frugal treatment of nature.

But criminalising the production of ivory altogether is nothing but pandering to the more hare-brained aspects of our wokish modernity. Ivory has all sorts of ornamental uses and an extremely important functional one: it’s irreplaceable as the material for piano keys.

That’s how elephants fulfil the biblical commandment to serve man, and we should thank them for it. But we emphatically shouldn’t sentimentalise animals and revert to their worship, so characteristic of pagan and pantheistic cults.

Wills is essentially a jerk waiting for a knee. Modernity obligingly supplies many such knees, but the very purpose of monarchy is to act as a timeless institution, the leitmotif running through the country’s history and binding it together.

When this institution falls into Wills’s hands, I shudder to think what will happen to it. His father is no towering intellect either, and nor is he averse to a bit of nature worship, to the point of chatting up plants and engaging in foreplay with trees. But at least he can speak proper English.

In his 1972 play Artist Descending a Staircase, Tom Stoppard wrote a perceptive line when he might have only wanted to write a witty one: “Skill without imagination is craftsmanship and gives us many useful objects such as wickerwork picnic baskets; imagination without skill gives us modern art.”

This is one of those rare occasions when a thought is debatable in its immediate sense (not all modern art is without skill), but acquires a deep meaning when expanded to a general principle.

The highest forms of human activity don’t just require a natural aptitude – they also need to be expressed within a tight discipline. Without an inner discipline, music becomes cacophony, an argument becomes an exchange of rants, poetry becomes gibberish, and art becomes Damian Hirst.

This unbreakable symbiosis of content and form is especially prevalent in Western culture, springing – along with most of its other aspects – from the unity of God and man in the person of Jesus Christ.

The realisation that the ultimate truth of spiritual content could be contained within the physical confines of a human body shaped Western culture in unique ways. It’s in this synthesis that the West began to seek perfection, eschewing Hellenic reliance on form as its own content.

Predictably, as the West moved away from Christianity, it also began to lose the traditional unity of form and content. It was as if they went their separate ways, each trying to rely on its own resources only.

Many artists – and I am talking about real artists here, not charlatans like Hirst or Emin – began to look for perfection in form only, typically finding out that, emptied of its contents, the outer shape tends to collapse and disintegrate.

Faith and church also went in opposite directions, demonstrating that anticlericalism is the anteroom of atheism. The church gradually got to be seen not as the essential depository of religious truth, but as a sort of hobby venue, superfluous to the self-expression of man’s mystical intuition.

This broke the bottle that alone could contain the wine. The wine didn’t become liberated; it became a messy puddle on the floor.

This was accompanied by the same lexical confusion that’s so characteristic of every walk of modern life. Just as politics lost essential distinctions between freedom and liberty, law and justice, democracy and republic, representatives and delegates, religion and mysticism got to be perceived as synonyms.

In fact, they are closer to being antonyms. Natural mysticism isn’t a religion, though it can be the first step along the way.

Mysticism is amorphous; it’s a hazy instinct that hasn’t yet reached, and may never reach, God. It’s nebulous content in search of a form, not yet sure of itself and therefore uncertain which form, if any, will suit it best.

Only religion can steer a man to God, by crystallising a vague longing into faith and offering a moulded shape into which the longing can flow. The shape is well defined: whereas amorphous mysticism has to remain abstract, religion is always concrete. There exists no religion in general. There are only specific religions, each with its own revelation, dogma and rituals – its own way of looking at God and his world.

Mysticism, on the other hand, can only exist in general, and in that sense it is not merely different from religion but indeed opposite to it. That’s why many who flirt with mysticism often use it as a stick with which to beat religion on the head.

Since religion is both higher and grander than mysticism, it tends to subsume it, channelling it into religion’s own reservoir. Mysticism, on the other hand, sometimes refuses to be diverted into that conduit.

Mysticism relates to faith the way anarchy relates to liberty. At its most recalcitrant, it may rebel against faith to protect what may appear to be its freedom, but is in fact its amorphousness. When such a rebellion occurs, it may be expressed in ways that are not only non-religious but also actively anti-religious. Thus, while ‘an atheist Christian’ doesn’t sound plausible, ‘an atheist mystic’ does.

The mystical atheist happily coexists with another widespread modern type, the clerical atheist. These are exceptionally clever people who don’t believe in God but recognise the social and moral utility of the church.

They reduce Christianity to its morality and realise that modernity is demonstrably remiss in producing a viable replacement. The point I usually make when arguing with clerical atheists is that, if they believe Christianity is false, then it’s not a solid foundation on which to build a successful society. If Christianity isn’t true, it’s useless.

Arguing with clerical atheists is pointless; arguing with mystical atheists is impossible. Their reason seems to be as amorphous as their spiritual longings.

Many of them find solace in inward-looking Eastern creeds, especially Buddhism (as they understand it). When transplanted into Western soil, such faiths, or rather philosophies, encourage the innate solipsism of modernity. They liberate man from accountability to an entity not only outside him, but also infinitely higher than him.

By replacing prayer with meditation, such Westerners look for truth within themselves, unaware that themselves is all they can find at that site. They believe, wrongly, that such pseudo-spiritual transport will enable their minds to soar to heaven. In fact, it pushes their minds down to the ground, where high reason is replaced with quotidian rationalism.

For a Christian the absolute is unknowable completely. For a Buddhist the absolute is completely unknowable. It’s beyond human understanding, and paradoxically that appeals to the modern Western rationalist with a mystical dimension. He acknowledges nothing higher than his own commonsensical reason.

Therefore whatever lies outside his common sense either doesn’t exist or might as well not exist. To him, rationally unknowable means practically nonexistent. Thus mixed with Western rationalism, Buddhism – or any other abstract mysticism – naturally segues into Western godlessness.

It’s amazing how Yom Kippur, Judaism’s holiest day, that of atonement, evokes thoughts that go beyond elections, infections and depredations. One is reminded why our civilisation is called Judaeo-Christian, not Buddhist, mystical, spiritual or rationalist.

Close to retirement after 30 years in frontline policing, Sgt Matiu Ratana sought a safe haven. He had done his bit of hazardous duty.

His new job, at the Croydon Custody Centre, definitely seemed safer than patrol duty. Or so Sgt. Ratana thought.

Two days ago he was shot dead at his station by a Muslim terrorist suspect. Those shots ought to reverberate throughout the whole society, not just law enforcement.

Actually, they did reverberate, and it’s those echoes that reveal the intellectual and moral bankruptcy of our woke modernity.

The BBC reported the murder an hour or so after the shooting. Following the usual waffle about Sgt. Ratana’s sterling character, about half the space was devoted to a mendacious argument against armed police.

After helpfully informing us that only 17 British policemen have been shot dead since the war, the report explained that: “The fact is that there are very few criminal guns in circulation – and the culture of policing has never seen it as acceptable to be universally armed.”

I recall American bumper stickers, saying: “If guns are outlawed, only outlaws will have guns” and “It’s better to have a gun and not to need it than to need it and not to have it.” Both can easily cross the ocean and work just as hard in Croydon and other such places.

Handguns were outlawed in Britain in 1996, making it impossible for law-abiding citizens to protect their families from vicious felons. The latter, however, have no problem obtaining firearms. Apparently a handgun can be bought for as little as £30 in the mean streets of Croydon.

Thus that first bumper sticker applies here as well. What about the second?

The BBC shows how easy it is to deceive by choosing arbitrary subsets of data. The impression they seek to convey is that a gun is only ever needed as protection against other guns.

But that’s a fallacy. A man stabbed or clubbed to death is just as dead as a victim of a bullet. Similarly false is the idea of proportional defensive force peddled by the ‘liberals’.

Their assumption is that a man being attacked with a knife or a baseball bat (British sports shops do brisk business in those, even though no one plays baseball) shouldn’t be allowed to defend himself with a gun. Instead he too should grab a knife or a bat, however making sure he doesn’t really hurt the attacker. If he does, he may well end up being the one in the dock.

True, our policemen don’t have guns. But don’t they need them?

They don’t, says the BBC. After all, they are unlikely to be shot. Fair enough, British criminals don’t see guns as essential accessories. Unlike their American counterparts, they are more likely to favour stabbing, slashing or clubbing weapons.

It’s with such implements that 10,399 police officers were injured in 2018 (I have no later data), with a further 20,578 assaults that didn’t result in injuries. How many could have been prevented had the officers carried something heavier than a truncheon and a Taser? Most, I dare say.

However, our police are disarmed in even more vital ways. They are prevented from doing their job, being encouraged instead to act as a branch of social services. Here’s how our anti-terrorist police describe their Prevent programme on their official website:

“We work with local authority partners and community organisations to help find solutions and work to support and protect vulnerable people… Following assessment, many referrals to Prevent do not result in any further police action. In some cases other organisations such as health, housing or education step in to provide support.”

The vulnerable people the anti-terrorist police should protect aren’t potential terrorists but their future victims. Steering youngsters away from recruitment by terrorist Muslim cells may involve taking care of their health, education and housing, but that’s not the natural purview of the police. If they simply stuck to investigation, apprehension and isolation, they’d be more successful.

Then another question arises: how could a suspected terrorist carry a concealed weapon into a police station? Didn’t the arresting officers search him?

Er… they did, but they didn’t do it very well – partly because they didn’t know how, and partly because they are scared stiff of being too zealous in searching BAME suspects – a charge of racism is looming.

A police patrol stopped the Sri Lankan, already known for terrorist links, in the street and performed a cursory search. They found his pockets bulging with drugs and revolver rounds. Unlike the former, the latter have no useful purpose in the absence of a gun from which they can be fired.

Hence the police must have assumed that such a weapon was secreted somewhere on the chap’s person. So it was, in his trousers at the base of his spine, but a pat-down found nothing — pathetically. Now, I realise that our police are laudably encouraged to learn nothing about handguns, but even small ones are sizeable, hard metallic objects.

Not finding it while patting a man down is a zenith of incompetence, crying out for an explanation. A Met spokesman duly provided one: “He would never have been placed in a van and taken to the police station had they known he was still armed.”

That’s comforting to know. You mean they would have taken the revolver away from him? I’m not sure about that. Might be a violation of the Sri Lankan’s human rights and yet another manifestation of institutional racism.

The only policeman authorised to perform a more thorough search is the sergeant on duty at the Custody Centre, in this case Matiu Ratana. Yet, when he entered the room where the Sri Lankan was held, the latter performed a contortionist feat.

Though handcuffed behind his back, he managed to pull the weapon out and, shooting from behind his waist, first kill Sgt Ratana and then wound himself in the neck. The second act seems well nigh impossible to me, but then I shouldn’t underestimate the athletic suppleness of young men.

The police officer paid with his life for the ideological emasculation of law enforcement, yet this never comes up in any reports. Not a single one, however, fails to mention the irrelevant fact that the murderer is autistic, and also that no terrorist motive existed.

Now, anyone who has ever shot handguns knows even the ability to hit the proverbial barn door requires regular practice. Firing accurate shots from behind one’s back betokens extended, serious training in the art of killing.

So here we have a Muslim suspected of terrorist links, who knows how to hide a revolver on his person so well that even a police search can’t find it. He has clearly received advanced pistol training (not easily available in the UK) and can hit a target even out of an acrobatic position. He then uses his training to murder a policeman.

Why did he do all that if not for terrorist reasons? Because he’s autistic of course. Need you ask?

Following this horrendous incident, people are beginning to talk, albeit cautiously, about the need to change police procedure. Empty talk, that. No procedural changes will work until society rediscovers its spunk, its commitment to defending itself from erosion and its members from crime.

Having said that, I begin to consider the moral, intellectual and political shift required to let the police do their job and I sigh hopelessly. It’s never going to happen, is it?

Following the announcement that trade in fur will be banned after Brexit, I sat down to write a scathing piece about neo-paganism, crazed rebels craving a cause, and our society’s inability to mount resistance.

However, as the sentences began to take shape under my fingers, the words looked strangely familiar. After a brief search, I found there was a reason for that: I already wrote an article on this subject last November. To save myself needless exertion, and in the spirit of responsible recycling, I’m hereby rerunning that piece, adding only this anecdote:

Some 25 years ago my wife and I were visiting friends in Amsterdam. It was a bitterly cold winter, and Penelope was wearing a fur coat. “You must be very brave,” said our Dutch friend. “Women have been attacked in the streets for this.” “If any bastard as much as looks at Penelope askance, he’ll end up in the canal,” I replied.

Then I looked at the herds of seven-foot Dutchmen roaming the streets and realised how empty and boastful that promise was. Later I was jolly glad I didn’t have to act on it – I can’t swim. Anyway, here’s that bit of retrospective:

The palace has announced that the Queen’s new garments will henceforth use only fake fur. Yet Her Majesty will continue to wear her existing fur outfits, of which one suspects she has a lifelong supply.

That has encouraged some columnists to reassure the few remaining conservatives out there that the gesture was merely symbolic. That’s true – but it’s the wrong kind of symbolism.

The argument against furs, meat, leather, hunting and so forth is merely symbolic too. Few New Agers shed any other than crocodile tears at the plight of minks: their rancour resides not in the text but in the subtext, in connotation rather than denotation.

At base, this is the sartorial extension of class war. It’s not that they love furry animals; it’s that they hate people who wear their pelts to keep warm and look good.

More broadly, they hate the civilisation that historically worships God, not animals; one weaned on the Genesis belief that all living creatures were created to serve man – and only for that purpose.

Arguing against New Age savages logically is pointless. Logic is helpless against statements emanating not from reason, but from the putrid swamp of sinister emotions.

Logically, the argument against furs doesn’t hold water for a second. To inject a modicum of sense into it, one would have to explain why wearing a coat made of ewe’s skin is wrong, while wearing shoes made of the same material or eating meat from the same animal is acceptable.

Pretending to be reasonable, some New Agers make the next step and also denounce both the shoes and the meat, which idiocy is lamentably acquiring some following. But that next step is a giant leap into neo-paganism: worshiping animals and even claiming they aren’t qualitatively different from man.

Whenever I hear this, I praise the New Agers for their ability to judge themselves so realistically. What’s important to remember is that this lot are typological equivalents of all anti-Western fanatics, whatever their ostensible cause. As often as not they are the same people.

Whether they demonstrate against furs, meat, nuclear power, capitalism or fossil fuels, in their viscera they are screaming hatred of our civilisation and its religious, intellectual, moral and legal underpinnings. All those things, in other words, that Her Majesty has undertaken to uphold in her realm.

Lest we forget, she’s not only the head of our state but also the Supreme Governor of our established church, which, for all its oil-trading hierarchs, female bishops, bouncy castles and increasingly demotic liturgy, remains residually Christian.

It’s possible that the Queen is our last monarch to accept the traditional title of defensor fidei, Defender of the Faith. But accept it she did and, from what one hears, sincerely.

That’s why it’s her sacred duty to defend not only the faith itself, but also the culture and civilisation based on the faith. And, while Genesis is unequivocal on the role of animals, I struggle to find anywhere in the Western historical, religious and philosophical sources an injunction against wearing furs, eating meat or wearing leather shoes.

‘Western’ is the operative word because other civilisations encourage the worship of animals, such as cats or cows, and even some insects. That’s their privilege, and I’m not going to be my usual cultural supremacist self and claim that their creeds are inferior to ours. Suffice it to say in this context that they are alien and frequently hostile to ours.

Western civilisation has existed for about 3,000 years, yet only in the past few decades has enmity to furs begun to claim a high moral ground.

The underlying assumption seems to be that modern people, who managed to kill the better part of 300 million people in just the twentieth century, more than in all other centuries combined, have raised morality to a dizzying height their predecessors were unable to scale.

Our monarchy’s remit is to act as the bulwark against deadly neo-pagan perversions, not as their conduit and endorser. Defaulting on that duty, in matters big or small, jeopardises the very existence of the monarchy.

I’m sure Her Majesty had her arm twisted to sign her name to that New Age nonsense. One wonders if there’s still enough spunk left among the British to untwist it.

Just as I was incensed yesterday about US congressmen meddling in our affairs, Americans have every right to be aggrieved by Prince Harry blatantly advising them to vote for Biden in November.

He didn’t do that in so many words, but the meaning was so transparent that he might as well have done. Someone ought to explain to Harry certain basic truths he obviously can’t figure out for himself.

First, he is rather the opposite of bright. A man of his woefully inadequate intellect is in no position to lecture anybody on anything.

Second, our celebrity culture is such that even nonentities feel entitled to pontificate publicly if their name is readily recognised by the masses. However, acting on that perceived entitlement makes them look even more, rather than less, pathetic.

Harry’s name is recognised by the masses for one reason only: he is a prince of the realm. By all accounts he was a good soldier, but such men don’t benefit from name recognition unless they’ve performed an act of spectacular heroism or perhaps reached a senior general’s rank.

Third, the status of a prince of the realm confers rare privileges, while at the same time imposing ironclad responsibilities. Benefiting from the former while ignoring the latter is worse than inane and tasteless. Since it undermines the very essence of our constitutional dispensation, irresponsible behaviour on the part of the royals is borderline treasonous.

Fourth, being a prince of the realm or, for that matter, any royal involves the forfeiture of some rights the rest of us take for granted. One of them is the freedom of expressing political views publicly – and certainly campaigning for political parties even at home, never mind abroad.

Fifth, while the life of a private subject of Her Majesty belongs only to him and his God, the life of a prince also belongs to the whole nation. Some royals, especially those not burdened with excessive intellect, may find that onus unbearable. However, they must bear it for any number of historical and political reasons.

Sixth, however passionately Harry is obsessed with his wife, she is a typical Hollywood starlet with next to no talent and transient good looks. Marrying Harry was Meghan’s shortcut to enduring fame, which is a time-honoured stratagem for young women on the make.

However, Meghan insists on using her new-found fame as a platform from which to vent her hare-brained woke views on every conceivable subject. It’s beyond her modest abilities to fathom that, by marrying a royal prince, she has stopped being just Meghan Markle. Instead she became HRH the Duchess of Sussex, an important cog in the wheels of the British constitution.

The Queen must act with alacrity to put an end to this obscene road show. The HRH title, along with all other royal insignia, must be immediately removed from Harry and Meghan de jure, as it already has been de facto.

It’s not enough that they are no longer working royals – they must be taken down from the royal perch altogether. Moreover, they, like the Duke of Windsor (another royal henpecked by an American femme fatale) back in the ‘30s, must be banned from entering Britain, unless explicitly allowed to do so by the prime minister in each case.

Harry should keep his officer’s rank, provided he reverts to the name he used in the service, Harry Windsor. I for one will be interested to see the ratings of those Netflix films produced by Mr and Mrs Windsor, rather than the Duke and Duchess of Sussex. So, no doubt, will Netflix.

We must recognise the vital role played by the monarchy in Britain’s constitution, which is to say her very essence. For Britain, more than any other European country, is defined by her political arrangement. This is arguably the country’s greatest contribution to Western civilisation, much envied and often emulated by others throughout history.

The constitution has evolved over the centuries, but it has remained essentially intact for over three centuries, despite Tony Blair’s constitutional vandalism. But even in his zeal Blair discovered that no part of Britain’s political structure could be removed without jeopardising the whole.

Thus, much as he wanted to expunge the very notion of a Lord Chancellor, he only succeeded in downgrading the office, not eliminating it. Blair found out that too many political and administrative cul-de-sacs await any train trying to bypass that vital stop.

Yet the monarchy is even more important, by several orders of magnitude. If it collapses, Britain will be plunged into a hopeless political chaos, compared to which the economic damage done by Covid (avidly assisted by our craven, spivocratic government) will look like a marvel of order.

The republican sentiment at the grassroots is strong, and every time a royal violates his brief it gets stronger. Hence Harry’s idiotic shenanigans threaten his whole family and therefore the country.

When that’s the case, both Whitehall and the Palace must act quickly and decisively. In 1936 Stanley Baldwin knew what to do under such circumstances. Boris Johnson, who fancies himself a historian, should study history not just out of academic interest.