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Singer Vera Lynn, ‘the Forces’ Sweetheart’, died at the venerable age of 103, and there’s hardly an English heart that doesn’t feel sorrow.

My heart is English only vicariously, but I too felt sad on hearing the news. For I was moved each time I heard her recorded voice singing “We’ll meet again, don’t know where, don’t know when…” I hated myself afterwards, for being a mawkish sentimentalist, but there was little to be done about that.

Every nation has songs conveying similar sentiments, war songs outlasting the war. For example, I’m sure Germans still get soppy listening to recordings of Marlene Dietrich’s Lili Marleen – although I suspect the French may have mixed feelings about Maurice Chevalier’s Paris reste Paris.

Now my memory is weird. I have none at all for numerals: the only phone number I remember is my home’s in London. When I need my number in France or that of my mobile, I have to look them up.

However, my memory for words is well above average. I’m not going to boast about my English vocabulary, that being a tool of my trade. But I do remember, trivially and uselessly, the complete lyrics of hundreds of songs in two languages, and God only knows how many poems.

Dozens of the songs I know are Russian ballads, written during or at least about the war. Some of them are as poignant as We’ll Meet Again, some even more so. But the point I wish to make is that there are indeed dozens of them.

Thus it was to my shame that I realised that Dame Vera’s signature tune is the only wartime English song I knew. I made an effort to jog my memory and still drew a blank – apart from a British ditty about the testicular deficiency of Nazi leadership and the American typological equivalent Right in der Führer’s Face.

Considering that I’ve spent most of my adult life in an Anglophone environment, these were slim pickings indeed. And there I was, thinking I had absorbed every particle of my adopted culture.

Desperate to bridge that gap in my assimilation effort I asked my wife to mention a few wartime songs. No need to sing or recite the lyrics. Just tell me what they were.

Now Penelope isn’t just English, but what my erstwhile colleagues called ‘very English’, as if Englishness were a quantifiable concept. So she instantly came up with We’ll Meet Again and… well, We’ll Meet Again. That was it.

Of course Penelope is a concert pianist, whose musical experience leaves little room for downmarket genres. She’d have no problem recalling scores of Bach cantatas or Schubert lieder, but popular songs just aren’t part of her life.

Fair enough. Recognising that my research sample was too small, I rang a few English friends and asked the same question about songs from the Second World War. Much to my dismay I also got the same reply: “We’ll Meet Again.” “And what else?” “Er… We’ll Meet Again.”

I didn’t conduct a similar survey among my Russian friends, because I didn’t have to: I already knew what the result would be. Few of them would know by heart as many lyrics as I do, but none of them would fail to recall the titles of dozens of war songs, and perhaps a line or two in each.

This is a detail, but of the kind where the devil is. Because, applying Aristotle’s cognitive methodology, we can go from the particular to the general and ask the next question: How come the British know so few war songs (or just one) and the Russians know so many?

A single-word answer will suffice: exposure. Someone growing up in Russia, and not just immediately after the war but even now, wouldn’t be able to avoid, no matter how hard he tried, hearing whole medleys of war songs every day. However, a Briton would hardly ever hear them, and that’s without making a special effort of avoidance.

Next question: how come? Here I’d suggest that anyone who ponders this question properly will understand more about Russia than he will by perusing learned tomes.

Especially if he also compares the celebrations of Victory Day in Britain and Russia. In Britain, these are short and mournful. They are a cause for sorrowful remembrance and perhaps a prayer, not for bellicose drum-rattling, bugle-whining celebrations.

Which is exactly what they are in Russia. Tanks and ICBMs trundle over the cobbles of Red Square, troops goosestep, current leaders wave from the ziggurat housing Lenin’s mummy. Thousands of tipsy idiots crowd the streets, yelling “We can do it again!!!”

What can you do again, idiots? – I’m tempted to ask. Form an alliance with the most evil regime you can find? Carve up Europe with it? Flood it with supplies it needs to pounce on the West? Finally fall out with it? Fight the war so ineptly and with so much contempt for soldiers’ lives that the road from Moscow to Berlin is still paved with the bones of tens of millions? Loot and rape your way through Eastern Europe and then Germany? Install blood-stained regimes in Eastern Europe and reinforce your own?

Individuals think, but masses don’t. A wad of humanity is no longer quite human; it acts by reflexes nurtured and conditioned over a lifetime. And idolising the war is one reflex that’s hammered into the Russians before all others.

The victory bought at the expense of 27 million lives (including at least half a million of their own soldiers executed by the Soviets themselves) isn’t just a part of history – it’s the only self-legitimising factor of the regime, its stock reply to otherwise uncomfortable questions.

How come a third of the population starve? We won the war. Why is everything worth buying made abroad? We won the war. Why is Russia always at the bottom of every list dealing with civil rights and quality of life? We won the war. Why do Russians have to die in the Ukraine and Syria? We won the war.

This isn’t a simple Q&A exercise. A population has to be house-trained to lap up that ubiquitous answer, it has to be systematically brainwashed to scream “we can do it again” instead of “down with [the current father of the nation]”.

And war songs are a crucial part of that satanic programme of universal dumbing-down and brutalisation. That’s why all Russians grow up hearing them endlessly at home and everywhere they go – not just on Victory Day but every day.

Many of those songs are very good individually; some even better than We’ll Meet Again. But unlike Vera Lynn’s classic, they aren’t pure in heart, not collectively at any rate. For everything that serves a sinister end is itself sinister.

Dame Vera Lynn, RIP. 

At least Covid and BLM did us the favour of keeping Greta Thunberg and her particular obsession more or less out of the news.

‘More or less’ are the operative words here, for Greta is a veritable polymath. Though the world gave global warming a short break, she filled her time by appearing on the CNN panel of experts discussing coronavirus. I’m eagerly awaiting her contribution to piano technique, molecular biology and treatment for cancer.

Now the two current blights seem to be past their peak, Greta is back with a vengeance, and so is her pet issue. But, having acquired expertise in adjacent areas, she has graduated from analysis to synthesis. Greta cast a panoramic glance around her and realised that global warming, coronavirus and BLM are all aspects of the same problem.

The problem is the West with its pernicious politics and money-grubbing capitalism. That dastardly entity is trying to fry people alive with carbon dioxide, poison them with Covid-19 and exterminate ethnic minorities.

But no longer. According to Greta the world has “passed a social tipping point, we can no longer look away from what our society has been ignoring for so long whether it is equality, justice or sustainability”.

However, global warming is taking centre stage again as the longest prong of the trident about to skewer mankind. Here Greta treats different countries’ undertakings to reduce carbon emissions with the derision they deserve.

Even if they keep their word, which is never a given with capitalists, we’ll still suffer “catastrophic global temperature rises of 3-4 degrees” and the ensuing extinction of life.

As with cancer treatment, which must be next on Greta’s agenda, it’s no use treating the symptoms of the disease while ignoring its cause. And the cause is capitalism.

Hence the only way to avert the extinction of life on Earth is to get rid of capitalism and its political offshoots. “The climate and ecological crisis cannot be solved within today’s political and economic systems”, explained Greta. “That isn’t an opinion. That’s a fact.”

Of course it is, dear, now calm yourself, have a glass of milk and go to bed. Seriously now, what does it say about a cause when its most prominent champion is a hormonally retarded, hysterical child with a whole raft of mental problems?

But let’s not be too beastly to Greta. She merely jumped on the bandwagon that had started rolling before she was born. Greta didn’t invent the global warming hoax; she just lent her shrill, incoherent voice to it.

For the ‘catastrophes’ of global temperature risings of a few degrees have happened countless times in the past – and somehow both the Earth and its inhabitants have managed to hang on. Moreover, the periods of global warming always miraculously coincided with an increase in biodiversity and general well-being.

Nor is there a shred of proof that those cyclical temperature rises were driven by atmospheric CO₂. In fact, The CO₂ in the atmosphere is only 0.001 per cent of the total CO₂ in life, and human activity contributes only 3.8 per cent to that minuscule proportion.

It wouldn’t take a mind much greater than Greta’s to figure out that, if global warming is caused by anthropogenic carbon emissions, then no such phenomenon would have existed before capitalists colluded to profit from industrial activity.

Conversely, if it can be shown that there were extended warm periods in the idyllic times of carbon-free economies (or no economies at all), then the whole global warming will be shown for the ideological fraud it is.

In fact, if we look at the past six million years, it was warmer than now for three million of them. The rest of the time saw a steady increase in the frequency of climatic cycles, with glacial and interglacial periods (such as the one we’re living in now) alternating at varying intervals, lasting from millions of years to mere decades. Compared to those cycles, modern warming is trivial.

If we look at the past thousands, rather than millions, of years, there were warmings galore. For example, in the Roman Warming (250 BC to 450 AD) temperature was at least 2C to 6C higher than now. During that ‘catastrophe’, in the 1^st century BC, citrus trees and grapes were grown in England as far north as Hadrian’s Wall.

Medieval Warming (900-1,300 AD) registered similar temperatures – and similar flourishing of agriculture. That created an abundance of food and a massive influx of excess capital and labour. Both, incidentally, went into the construction of the great cathedrals that adorn Europe to this day.

Cycles of glacial and interglacial periods have been with us forever, and scientists still don’t know exactly every contributing factor. About 98 per cent of climate changes are produced by variations in solar activity. Also vital are volcanicity, cloud cover, changes in Earth’s orbit, radiation levels, the position of other planets, such as Jupiter, and so forth, ad infinitum.

Serious study of climate changes must engage many different sciences, including inter alia astronomy, geology, solar physics, astrophysics, palaeontology, tectonics, oceanography, geochemistry, volcanology – and history.

Since our Renaissance girl Greta doubtless possesses expertise in all these disciplines, she can explain why temperature hasn’t increased in the past two decades despite the growing amount of anthropogenic CO₂.

If CO₂ produced by capitalism is killing ‘our planet’, then why did the global temperature increase from 1919 to 1940, decrease from 1940 to 1976,  increase from 1976 to 1998 and decrease from 1998 to the present? And why do the same people who in the early 1970s were screaming about an imminent Ice Age now carry on about global warming?

They base their alarmism on computer models ranging from speculative to slapdash to downright fraudulent. For example, the notorious ‘hockey stick’ graph was concocted by plotting data that excluded Roman and Medieval Warmings and choosing only a short arbitrary period. As to such factors as solar activity, they were ignored altogether.

Greta gets one thing right, albeit inadvertently: the issue has nothing to do with science and everything to do with politics. The kind of politics that can indeed bring about global extinction possibly and global enslavement definitely.

The poor child can’t be held responsible for her words and actions, but in a normal world the grown-ups who inflamed her little mind would be brought to account. But who told you we live in a normal world?

If I were to name one defining (and, to me, the most endearing) characteristic of the English, I’d probably opt for a sense of humour. Take it away, and England would be like Germany, but without the efficiency.

Not only is a sense of humour prevalent in England, it’s also unique and diverse. It can be cutting or affable, self-deprecating or savage, dry or ribald, subtle or direct.

Above all, the English have one commendable trait that perhaps only the Jews possess to the same extent: they can laugh at themselves. In that they are different from the French, who only do a good job laughing at others. And of course the Germans’ mirth is only ever provoked by bodily functions.

If humour is a defining characteristic of the English, then losing it would be tantamount to cultural genocide. Which is exactly the catastrophe unfolding before our very eyes.

The unsmiling, self-righteous woke brigade is taking over with the stern resolve typical of all totalitarians. It’s declaring ever-expanding areas of life to be off-limits for humour, realising – as all totalitarians do – that laughter can defeat them faster than rage.

Back in the day, the Soviets rewarded political jokes with 10-year sentences in the Gulag death camps. The Nazis also quashed all attempts at humour: Charlie Chaplin lampooning Hitler was their worst enemy.

Our budding totalitarians have all the same instincts, but they don’t yet have the same power. Hence they can only contort their features into a sanctimonious grimace, voice their displeasure and demand that the hapless wag be censured.

That fate befell the BBC sports presenter Gary Lineker, in the past an England footballer. Gary naturally has impeccable left-wing credentials, which partly explains why he became BBC’s top earner.

Yet also contributing to his popularity are his professional skill, easy charm and, well, sense of humour. It’s that latter faculty that got him in trouble.

Covid gave Gary a bit of downtime but, now the Premier League is back, so is he. Lineker hasn’t changed much from what I can see, but the Premiership has – in line with the neo-totalitarian BLM diktat.

All footballers, managers and referees have to take the knee before each match. I can’t help thinking that, among the several hundred people involved, there have to be a few who disapprove of the international pogrom spree inspired by the BLM slogan – this without being racists.

But the genuflecting craze leaves no room for disagreement, not for someone who wishes to keep his job. Totalitarians demand uniformity and are prepared to enforce it with every means at their disposal.

As part of their re-education campaign, they demanded that every player replace his name on the back of his jersey with the words Black Lives Matter. Thus, instead of saying, for example, ‘Harry Kane 9’ the shirt now has to say ‘Black Lives Matter 9’.

Gary Lineker responded to that holier-than-thou absurdity by tweeting a little joke to his 7.5 million followers: “Had a tenner on Black Lives Matter to score the first goal.”

If he forgot that life in England is no longer a laughing matter, he was quickly reminded of it. A torrent of reprimands wasn’t slow in coming:

“Out of order Gary! Is casual racism a thing with you now?” “So the last two weekends it’s been a serious message, we’ve had TV shows cancelled but this joke is acceptable?” “This is making a mockery of the message so yeah I fully expect people to want him sacked.” “Wow. Nothing to joke about, Gary. You’re cancelled.”

So far Lineker has been neither sacked nor cancelled, but the BBC, though declining to comment, has contacted his agent. We’ll wait and see.

While waiting, however, we can observe that the ethical standards imposed by the woke mob are considerably stricter than those demanded by Jesus Christ. He, after all, only placed the Holy Ghost off-limits:

“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.”

Never mind all manner of sin and blasphemy. These days – in England! – a man can lose his livelihood for making an innocent joke. He can’t yet lose his life, but one can see where things are going.

Everyone who knows him as intimately as I do is aware that my friend Donald Trump is a man of exquisite style, vast erudition and unimpeachable [sic] integrity.

In fact, I advised him during the 2016 campaign to tone down his boundless vocabulary for tactical reasons, and certainly to refrain from using foreign, especially Latin, phrases. The odd grammatical solecism, alien as it was to his refined locution, would also go down well with his core electorate, I suggested.

“But Al,” objected Donald, “Caesar non supra grammaticos, meaning a president shouldn’t sound like a square from Delaware.” Thankfully, however, Donald eventually followed my advice and adjusted his speech patterns accordingly.

So much more appalled was I to find out that Donald fell victim to calumny perpetrated by his disgruntled former employee, John Bolton. That scumbag, to use Donald’s favourite word, maligned the president, describing him as a self-centred ignoramus.

Sensing that Donald was in need of solace, I immediately rang him on the burner mobile he had given me on my birthday. It was only during our conversation that I realised how perfidious Bolton is, and how unfounded his allegations.

“The plebs are all over me,” complained Donald. “They say ex nihilo nihil fit, there’s no smoke without fire.”

“Yes, Don,” I commiserated. “How dare he claim you thought Finland was part of Russia!”

“That scumbag is lying ab ova usque ad mala,” said Don. “He twists every word I actually said.”

“Which was?”

“As I recollect, we were discussing Finland, a Nato member whose sovereignty is inviolable in accordance with Article 5 of the Nato Charter, and whose close proximity to Russia puts it in a precarious position. The Russians treat it as if it still were the Suomen suuriruhtinaskunta, the Grand Duchy of the Russian Empire. And now that scumbag claims I said Finland still was part of Russia.”

“He also claims you said invading Venezuela would be cool…”

“I’m getting a distinct sense of déjà vu,” sighed Donald. “All I said was Venezuela delenda est, meaning my moral position on that country’s heinous dictatorship is intractable. Hier stehe, ich kann nicht anders, and I don’t even have to subsist on a diet of worms.”

Seeing that his pun went right by me, Donald added with a wry smile: “I’m as capable of a lapsus manus as the next man. You know, homo sum humani a me nihil alienum puto, even though I’m no homo.

“But that scheming scumbag pretends not to realise that subtle changes in inflection can act effectively as a prosodic, extra-lexical means of communication.

“For example, he says I didn’t know Britain possessed nuclear weapons. What fabulae! You know what really happened?

“That old broad, senex mulier, Theresa said Britain was a nuclear power. I guffawed in my supercilious manner and said, I didn’t realise Britain was a nuclear power. Meaning it takes more than a couple of peashooters to qualify as a power.

“Cogitesne? Get it? I know perfectly well that Britain possesses a nuclear deterrent. I just questioned her being a goddamn power.

“Then I talk to that scumbag Xi, saying ‘Can’t offer you any circenses, Xi, other than my speeches, but US farmers can flood you with panem and especially soya, whatever the hell that is in Latin.’

“All I wanted to do was to help out our farmers who overproduce like lepores, and Chinamen, come to that. When I don’t negotiate on their behalf, scumbags like Bolton call me insensitive. When I do, they call me self-serving. Auribus teneo lupum – damned if you do, damned if you don’t.”

The rest of our conversation was emotional and strictly confidential. At the end I told my friend not to be excessively worried about the upcoming election.

There’s more to Donald Trump than just the presidency. Worst comes to worse, he can always become a professor of classics at an Ivy League university.

By using the phrase ‘people who menstruate’ instead of ‘women’, JK Rowling committed a crime that only by some oversight hasn’t yet been made an imprisonable offence.

Yet prison isn’t the only form of punishment. Abuse in the social media, ostracism and now a strike at her publisher’s office can be punitive enough.

If you still think free speech is intact, witness the refusal by employees of Hachette UK to work on Miss Rowling’s new book. They simply can’t bring themselves to proofread any text produced by someone who claims that women are women and men are men.

Miss Rowling deserves respect for proving yet again that perverse is the new normal, even more so than for her books, none of which I’ve had the pleasure of reading. Just think of it: virulent attacks are levelled at a celebrated author for saying something that should go without saying – that women’s lavatories should be reserved for women.

This is what Miss Rowling actually wrote: “… I do not want to make natal girls and women less safe. When you throw open the doors of bathrooms and changing rooms to any man who believes he’s a woman – and, as I’ve said, gender confirmation certificates may now be granted without any need for surgery or hormones – then you open the door to any and all men who wish to come inside.”

If that’s not self-evident, I don’t know what is. Those who have problems with Miss Rowling’s statement ought to look at what’s going on in women’s prisons. Burly thugs are put there because they ‘identify’ as women. Predictably, they then rape everyone there, including some female screws.

Yet the sheer volume of venom splashed on Miss Rowling was such that she felt called upon to offer 3,700 words of superfluous mock-Freudian explanation for her newly unorthodox views. In doing so, she undid some of her good work, though not all.

Apparently, she suffered sexual assault in her younger days, which explains her quest for “women-only spaces”. And because her Daddy really wanted a son, “if I’d been born 30 years later, I too might have tried to transition.”

In other words, if a very feminine Miss Rowling hadn’t been assaulted sexually, she’d have nothing against men walking into women’s lavatories at will. And, belying her crass insensitivity, she feels empathy for gender-benders – why, she could be one herself if she were younger.

Miss Rowling hasn’t quite been forced by the fascistic woke crowd to renounce her sane statement. But she has been forced to claim that, but for that unfortunate blip, she’s like them. And if she’s not entirely like them, she certainly has nothing against them.

I would have simply said that the issue bears no discussion: if your chromosomes are XY, you are a man; if they are XX, you are a woman. Full stop. End of conversation. And if, being a man, you wish to gain access to women’s lavatories, you’re a voyeur at best, rapist at worst. But then of course I have less to lose than Miss Rowling.

Hermaphrodites exist, and they’ve always existed. Yet their numbers are so small that they fall into the same category as Siamese twins and babies born with two heads.

Most unfortunate, that, but hermaphrodites merit no more special dispensation than do Siamese twins or bicephals. One doesn’t read too many demands that all clothing shops carry a line of two-in-one jackets and hats.

Nor does transsexuality merit elevation to a political issue. Yet everything can be made political these days, because our voting masses have been brainwashed to accept woke drivel as reality.

Perhaps ‘brainwashed’ is a wrong word here. Brains have to exist before they are washed, yet the woke brigade doesn’t satisfy this requirement in any other than the purely anatomical sense.

Those people don’t rely on reason to form their convictions. They respond to outside stimuli by reflexes only, like dogs or skunks. That negates the advantage of being human, throwing God’s most sublime creation back into his face.

To their credit, Hachette UK’s managers showed they still possess residual humanity by telling their employees they can’t refuse to work on Miss Rowling’s latest cash cow. “Freedom of speech is the cornerstone of publishing,” they said most commendably if, these days, less than truthfully.

But then, just like their prime client, they had to add a clarification that destroyed the good impression they had made:

“We will never make our employees work on a book whose content they find upsetting for personal reasons, but we draw a distinction between that and refusing to work on a book because they disagree with an author’s views outside their writing, which runs contrary to our belief in free speech.”

In other words, they can’t boycott those writers who express objectionable views in private. However, refusing to work on a book that says something brainless youths don’t like is perfectly all right. Those champions of free speech do draw the line in fine places.

Is it any wonder then that there exists a groundswell of opinion that we should redact from history great warriors, statesmen and philanthropists? Those who are guilty only of having failed to anticipate that at some time in the future an anomic chaos would arrive, turning all certitudes upside down and enforcing compliance with perverse and absurd notions.

This leaves only one question unanswered. If all our beliefs must spring from personal trauma to be valid, was Miss Rowling sexually assaulted in a public lavatory? Her faithful readers want to know.

Without Nato, Europe can’t survive as anything other than a purely geographic entity. This is as true now as it was during the Cold War.

Actually, the past tense is misplaced here. The Cold War never ended. It just took a 10-year break, only to come back, this time with red-hot edges.

An expansionist Russia ruled by history’s only fusion of secret police and organised crime constitutes what’s called a clear and present danger. Putin has declared that rebuilding the Soviet Union (whose demise he called “the greatest geopolitical tragedy of the 20^th century”) is his life’s mission – presumably in addition to multiplying his billions in offshore havens.

Lest we refuse to take him at his word, in 2014 Russia annexed vast tracts of Ukrainian territory, killing 13,000 Ukrainians in the process and running up the score even further by downing a certain airliner. In response, Western countries introduced sanctions, turned G8 into G7 and beefed up their military presence in Europe.

In response to their response, Putin recently announced a change to Russia’s war doctrine. The country may now use a nuclear first strike with low-yield theatre weapons. Doctrine or no doctrine, no one ever doubted the Russians were capable of that anyway, but now it’s official. Russia’s threat is at present as deadly as it ever was, perhaps even more so.

Therefore Nato’s role is as vital as it has ever been. And vital to Nato is Article 5 of its charter, saying that an attack on one member is an attack on all. Without all 30 members being fully committed to Article 5, the whole charter is for all intents and purposes null and void.

Now, while Europe can’t survive without Nato, Nato can’t survive without the US. It depends on a wholehearted American commitment – which, under President Trump, has been lukewarm at best.

I’ve written enough about Trump’s obvious admiration for Putin, accompanied by a demonstrable refusal to see Russia as a threat, despite all evidence. I’m not going to probe into the possible reasons for this attachment. Suffice it to say it exists.

Hence Trump has been making anti-Nato noises since even before assuming the presidency. His vitriol is usually aimed at European countries, especially Germany, for failing to meet their funding pledges.

That point is fair: whenever European countries feel the need to reduce public spending, their scissors go to the defence budget first. However, even though America contributes disproportionately to the Nato budget, she also derives numerous economic benefits inherent in her position as the Leader of the Free World.

Still, Europe should contribute more to its own protection, and somewhat begrudgingly it’s beginning to do so. If some countries still fall short of the agreed level of contributions (two per cent of GDP), America should try to influence them, not throw its toys out of the pram.

Yet that’s what Trump would do, given half the chance. With his transactional, bean-counting view of life, he clearly feels that the balance still isn’t in America’s favour. He may or may not be right, but geopolitics, unlike, say, property development, can’t be all about dollars and cents.

One can’t avoid the impression that Trump sees Nato as a take-it-or-leave-it proposition. Take if it pays; leave if it doesn’t.

As to Article 5, he has dropped countless hints that he sees it as an ad hoc arrangement, not an ironclad commitment. This encourages Putin who has designs on all former Soviet republics, but especially the Baltics, Estonia in particular.

Enter Newt Gingrich, former Speaker of the House, one of Trump’s closest political allies and his mouthpiece, activated to say outright what the president can only intimate. In a recent speech, Gingrich proved that he takes on board not only Trump’s ideas but also his demotic style:

“Estonia is in the suburbs of St Petersburg. The Russians aren’t gonna necessarily come across the border militarily. The Russians are gonna do what they did in Ukraine. I’m not sure I would risk a nuclear war over some place which is the suburbs of St Petersburg. I think we have to think about what does this stuff mean.”

If former professors of history sound like that, what can one expect from mere property developers? But never mind the style, feel the message. And it’s eerily reminiscent of another one, delivered by Neville Chamberlain on 27 September, 1938:

“How horrible, fantastic, incredible it is that we should be digging trenches and trying on gas-masks here because of a quarrel in a far-away country between people of whom we know nothing.”

The subsequent events, largely set off by this statement, ought to have taught mankind a useful lesson, but they didn’t. History never does.

Now, Estonia is 98 miles from St Petersburg. If such proximity makes her ineligible for Nato protection, then the Finns can’t sleep peacefully either: they are even closer. But then of course Gingrich was a professor of history, not geography.

Within his own discipline, what does he suppose the Russians did to the Ukraine? The answer is, they committed, and are continuing to commit, an act of unprovoked military aggression.

If that’s what lies in store for Estonia, both Gingrich and Trump seem to be relaxed about that. After all, rather than being a sovereign country and a fellow Nato member, Estonia is a mere suburb of St Petersburg.

If you doubt that Gingrich is enunciating Trump’s thoughts, the president’s actions have their own eloquence. Ever since Russia was booted out of the G8, he has been trying his best to have her reinstated, and to have all sanctions lifted.

Only staunch resistance on the part of Congress has stopped Trump from fully consummating his love affair with Putin. Yet he keeps trying.

A few days ago the president announced plans to withdraw 9,500 US troops from Germany, about a quarter of the total contingent. Some of the top US generals have pointed out that this would greatly jeopardise the Nato capability to respond to Russian aggression. I hope Trump managed to contain a QED smile.

Considering that 22 Republican congressmen are opposed to the action, it may not go ahead. But it’s the thought that counts, and the thought sends a signal to Putin, which isn’t dissimilar to the one Chamberlain sent to Hitler. 

The video of a seven-year-old girl on a BLM march in Long Island has gone viral. Most comments aren’t just positive but gushing, including one by Halle Berry, whose beauty is only rivalled by her stupidity.

There she is, that poor child, marching with a feral scowl on her face, screaming “No justeece, no peace!!!”, her tiny fists punching the air in a Black Power salute: https://indianexpress.com/article/trending/trending-globally/little-girl-walking-in-black-lives-matter-march-merrick-6443894/

And no commentator seems to see the evil of it all.

No, it’s not the little girl who is evil – she isn’t a free agent responsible for her actions and hence can’t be judged on strict moral criteria. It’s the grown-ups, those who brainwashed the child and dragged her into an active support of a political cause.

What kind of cause doesn’t really matter. It may be good, bad or indifferent. However, it forfeits its right to being judged good or even indifferent by conscripting children and destroying their childhood.

Those BLM chaps do start them early, which is a time-honoured tradition of all totalitarians. Yet even Khmer Rouge, ISIS and China with her Red Guards waited until children reached a mature age of 10 or so before sending them on a rampage.

I also like the slogan put into the child’s mouth; it has the benefit of forthrightness. ‘No peace’ can be legitimately taken to mean ‘war’, as in a declaration thereof.

I don’t know whether the New York State authorities are mobilising their forces to join the hostilities, but HMG is ready to surrender before the shots have even been fired.

Boris Johnson announced that “there is much more that we can do” to tackle racism, thereby conceding the point that racism exists, of a kind that would be vulnerable to administrative fiat or legislative action.

One thing we can apparently do is review all 950 commemorative plaques in London for their “problematic connotations”. The current problematic connotations are associated with plaques for Daniel Defoe, Field-Marshal Montgomery and even poor  Arthur Schopenhauer.

This opens a can of proverbial worms: we can argue about which plaques are problematic and which aren’t until the looters come home and still not agree. Therefore I propose a more radical solution.

We should do a Fukuyama and declare that history has ended, the dial has been reset. Since the British Empire was colonialist, racist and criminal, anyone alive at the time was at least indirectly complicit in its crimes.

Therefore all 950 plaques ought to be removed and replaced with those devoid of any problematic connotations whatsoever. Such as BLM marchers, LGTBQIA2S+ activists and rap performers.

As for the little No Justeece girl, she deserves not just a plaque, but a statue. That column in Trafalgar Square, soon to be vacated, looks like a perfect plinth.

Yesterday in London the English went in Dutch. Just as the BLM mob was getting in full swing, another mob arrived, this one made up of Tommy Robinson’s lookalikes.

The two mobs, the Marxists and the yobs, fought each other and, when the police tried to pull them apart, both mobs fought the police. That proved that it’s violence, not silence, that’s violence.

The Marxists were chanting “BLM”, which still sounds like some kind of sandwich to me. The yobs were screaming “In-ger-land”, a battle cry normally heard in the football terraces, where it tends to be accompanied by “if it wasn’t for Ingerland, you’d all be krauts” and “the ref is a wanker”.

At least, unlike a concurrent event happening in Paris’s Place de la République, no anti-Semitic slogans were heard, yet. There the noble campaigners against racism were screaming, inter alia, “sales juifs”. Clearly, their notion of racial solidarity involves blacks, whites and Muslims closing ranks and marching off together to kill Jews.

Commenting on the melee in central London, the papers reserved their most scathing opprobrium for the Tommy Robinson mob, whose patriotic slogans didn’t go down as well as those of the other lot.

Headlines featuring words like ‘racists’, ‘extremists’ and ‘right-wing thugs’ are screaming off newspaper pages, whereas one has to read the body text to find laments that those fighting against white privilege sometimes go too far, although their cause is just.

‘White privilege’ is a buzz phrase that keeps on buzzing. This is yet another example of the semantic larceny of modernity. The hacks don’t know, or at least pretend they don’t know, the difference between privilege and advantage.

Yet the distinction is vital. Advantage is a confluence of favourable factors, while privilege is advantage institutionalised.

Thus a white youngster born to two well-to-do university graduates and growing up surrounded by good books undoubtedly has an advantage over a black youngster born to a single mother and growing up in a council estate surrounded by crushed beer cans and discarded syringes.

But the former has no privileges compared to the latter. They both can rise to the same position in society, although this particular black chap will have a steeper hill to climb.

Now, if white privilege indeed existed, which it doesn’t, trying to get rid of it would be perfectly just. However, trying to get rid of white advantages is tantamount to a Marxist revolution, typologically close to those in Russia, China or Cambodia.

That whites do enjoy some advantages over blacks in most countries is a demonstrable fact. However, lamentable though this may be to some, doing something about it would involve overturning our whole civilisation, what’s left of it. That is precisely what the BLM mob is after, egged on by the likes of Daniel Finkelstein and other critics of white privilege who ought to know better.

Another pilfered and perverted word is justice, which is routinely modified by the adjective social. Justice means giving people their due. Again, in most countries the whites enjoy higher incomes than the blacks. That would only by unjust if the blacks were blocked from remunerative professions, which isn’t the case anywhere in the West. The disparity of incomes may be unfair, but it’s certainly not unjust.

Alas, such nuances are lost not only on the baying BLM mob, but also on its Oxbridge-educated inciters. And anyone who talks about white privilege is in effect inciting riots.

We are in deep trouble, but the trouble becomes abysmal if the only counterforce to the Marxists is provided not by the state and its law enforcement extension, but by jingoistic, quasi-fascist thugs.

Now, historical parallels vindicate Euclid by never quite converging. Hence one has to be careful drawing them. However, given due care and attention, some events of the past do indeed elucidate the present.

In this case, a parallel with the Weimar Republic seems to defy Euclid and vindicate Lobachevsky by getting very close to our time. There the order of battle involved the red mob on one side and the brown mob on the other. Conservatives, who despised both extremes, were silenced, crushed between two jaws of the same vice.

(Their cri de coeur was at its most piercing in the book Diary of a Man in Despair, by Friedrich Reck-Malleczewen. Having written his moving account, that conservative aristocrat was murdered by the Nazis in February, 1945.)

Many decent, if not excessively bright, Germans became either communists or Nazis because they felt that was the only choice on the table. The socialist government was impotent, while the predominantly conservative industrialists pinched their nostrils and sided with the Nazis. At least, unlike the communists, the Nazis weren’t threatening to dispossess them.

Our situation is eerily similar. I for one wouldn’t like to live in a country run by either the BLM lot or their quasi-fascist opposition.

Looking at the two clashing mobs, all I could think of was: “A plague o’ both your houses!” If that’s the only choice we have, it’s too stark by half. Where is a valid, effective conservative opposition? Who will provide it? Certainly not our so-called conservative government.

A year before he starved to death in February 1919, the Russian writer Vasily Rozanov published the essay The Apocalypse of Our Time. Looking at the events of the previous few months, he not so much wrote as wept: “Russia faded away in two days. At most – three.”

In 1925 TS Eliot wrote the poem The Hollow Man, where he too sounded an apocalyptic motif, albeit its different variation: “This is the way the world ends/ Not with a bang but a whimper.”

A major country fading away in two days, three at most, testified to the world (for which Russia was a metaphor) indeed ending with a bang, an instant violent outburst. Yet the two writers weren’t at odds; their themes meet at counterpoint.

It isn’t either a bang or a whimper, it’s both. What finishes off civilisations is indeed a protracted whimper, a slow erosion of will and atrophy of self-confidence. This brings a civilisation down to its knees (or one knee, as the case may be). When a bang arrives, as it usually does, it merely administers a coup de grâce.

This is exactly what happened to the Roman Empire. The Romans no longer understood their own society. They no longer knew what role they themselves had to play in their community, or what role their community played in the general scheme of things.

Mired in confusion, they resorted to decadence. Misguided in their overall direction, they got lost in a warren of blind alleys. They tried to probe every path, but there was no way out – they were running in place. Fatigue set in. Step by step, the stuffing went out of their previously taut muscles, and they fell prey to barbarian attacks.

Such is the aetiology of the senility to which historians usually ascribe the demise of Rome. And not only Rome. RG Collingwood, our underrated philosopher, extrapolated to a general principle:

“Civilisations sometimes perish because they are forcibly broken up by the armed attack of enemies without or revolutionaries within; but never from this cause alone. Such attacks never succeed unless the thing that is attacked is weakened by doubt as to whether the end which it sets before itself, the form of life which it tries to realise, is worth achieving. On the other hand, this doubt is quite capable of destroying a civilisation without any help whatever. If the people who share a civilisation are no longer on the whole convinced that the form of life which it tries to realise is worth realising, nothing can save it.”

Collingwood died in 1943, but if he were alive today, he’d no doubt observe every symptom of the collective disease he so perceptively diagnosed.

We too are no longer certain of our fundamental convictions. We too have replaced stern resolve with decadence. We too have lost the will to defend ourselves.

The major difference is that we haven’t yet had this point hammered home by a barbarian onslaught. But few are the optimists who maintain that such a development is improbable. Even fewer are the realists who point out that the barbarians have already attacked and won. Except that in our case they came from inside the city walls.

The vandals may fly any number of flags, each of them false in the sense that none would be faithful to the barbarians’ impelling animus. They may inscribe whatever slogan seems promising: anarchism, racial and sex equality, BLM, global warming, anti-nuke – whatever actuates mass passion at the moment, whatever makes the walls totter.

Arguing against the slogan of the day is pointless, especially since, taken at face value, some of them are unobjectionable, what Karl Popper would have called unfalsifiable. For example, who in his right mind would object to the slogan ‘black lives matter’ by saying no, they don’t?

Accepting slogans at face value, or rather pretending to do so, is a time-proven mechanism of craven, abject surrender. A robust civilisation with an intact will to defend itself would be strong enough to see through the slogans and respond with all it has to the murderous intent they camouflage.

Shifting history to the proscribed subjunctive mood, how do you suppose any Victorian prime minister, say Peel, Disraeli or Salisbury, would have responded to an orgy of rioting and looting accompanied by attacks on the Union Jack and other cherished symbols of the nation?

Would they have failed to see the rioters as the deadly enemies of our very civilisation? Would they have instructed the police to show solidarity and only use force when absolutely necessary or not even then? Of course not. They would have seen themselves as the strong arm of a collective will and acted accordingly.

Such a collective will no longer exists. That’s why it’s really useless to invoke the names I mentioned. Those prime ministers would have acted decisively and ruthlessly not because they were better men than today’s lot, but because they had the power of society’s convictions.

Today’s governments are reaping the harvest of defeatism and acquiescence nurtured over many decades. Having lost a unifying centre – spiritual, cultural, social and therefore political – our civilisation has been ceding one by one its positions at the periphery.

No politician can these days have a career unless he professes affection for whatever false flag is hoisted by the enemies of our civilisation. No one in public life can let slip that he sees the hatred and murderous intent hiding behind the flags.

Any idiocy, ignorance or madness merits serious discussion, or what passes for it nowadays. If our enemies insist that there exist 57 sexes, not just two; or that it’s perfectly normal for a man born as a woman to produce a child by a woman born as a man; or that capitalism is destroying ‘our planet’ with carbon dioxide; or that women constitute an oppressed minority; or that various ethnic groups are being targeted for institutional violence; or that children should vote and therefore add their gonadal input into government – we can’t just tell them to shut up and go back to work.

We no longer have the power of our convictions because we have neither convictions nor power. What we have is boundless confidence that what happened in Russia, circa 1917, or in Germany, circa 1933, or for that matter in Rome, circa 410, can’t happen here.

Oh yes it can, ladies and gentlemen: the whimper has been going on for too long to preclude a bang.    

As a lifelong champion of progress, I welcome the new world order. For, as anyone who worships progress knows, new always means better.

It was Joseph Schumpeter who gave us the concept of creative destruction. But we should go the old man one better and declare that all destruction is creative, rather than just some.

Therefore the new world order, spearheaded by the BML and Extinction Rebellion movements, should sweep all remnants of the old order into what another champion of progress, Trotsky, called the dustbin of history.

Our path lit by this enlightened general goal, we can easily work out the specifics, starting with the offensive statues to be removed and/or spray-painted with new-order graffiti and/or smeared with faeces. Here I propose a solution that will in one fell swoop put an end to arguments about which statues are offensive and which aren’t.

They all are, with the possible exception of Nelson Mandela, Mahatma Gandhi and Karl Marx. Mandela, Mahatma, Marx – a neatly alliterative acronym MMM can function as a stamp of approval, and it will look good superimposed on a red flag.

All other statues commemorate men who were irredeemably mired in the old order. Hence they were all complicit in its crimes.

For a start, look at the Houses of Parliament adorned with the statues of Richard I and Oliver Cromwell. Richard led an islamophobic crusade, a sin only partly redeemed by his homosexuality. And Cromwell practised not only the death penalty but also genocide. Of course the Irish are racially similar to whites, but they may be elevated to honorary blackness for the purpose of our exercise.

Now what’s George Washington doing in Trafalgar Square? He was a slave owner and one of the founders of an eternally racist state. His statue belongs in a skip, or perhaps on the bottom of the Thames.

And don’t let me get going on Napier, Clive, Rhodes, Mountbatten, Churchill, Smuts and other imperialist, colonialist, racist scum. Their statues should be not just removed but smashed up, with the fragments used as projectiles tossed at police cars and through the windows of Bond Street boutiques.

That Nelson, correctly described by my friend Afua Hirsch as a ‘white supremacist’, should be brought down from that column goes without saying (now that Afua has said it). But who should take that racist’s place?

You know the answer: George Floyd, with angel’s wings attached to his back. The design already exists, so transferring it to stone is dead easy. Of course, the column will have to be renamed after Floyd, and Trafalgar Square should thenceforth be known as Minneapolis Plaza.

Anyway, why bother mentioning historical villains by name? Did any of them speak out against racism, colonialism, homophobia, transphobia, capitalism and global warming? No, they didn’t.

Since we now know that silence is violence, none of those violent criminals merits a statue. Their vacated plinths can accommodate statues of new-order martyrs, black people killed by the police returning fire.

Such mass iconoclasm is a time-honoured practice of every revolution of the past. Statues of saints were destroyed during the Reformation, statues of tsars during the Bolshevik revolution, statues of Jews, such as Heine and Mendelssohn, during the Nazi regime.

The last two also set other worthy examples to follow, such as the bonfires of books. Today’s revolutionaries are too timid: they merely remove racist tracts like Huckleberry Finn and Gone With the Wind from circulation.

I much favour public immolation, ideally also to include the master copies of offensive films and, once the process has gathered speed, Tory MPs. A true revolution can’t stop halfway; it should keep and increase its momentum.

Up the Revolution! ladies and gentlemen. Or Up the Revolution’s, if you’d rather.