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Andrew Neil’s interview of French MEP Natalie Loiseau brought back fond memories of the past three-odd years, marked by the worst mess in British politics since the Stuart interregnum.

The mess was caused by our vacillation ably assisted by the EU’s perfidy. The former component seems to be abating, but by the looks of it the latter one shows no such sign.

For Mme Loiseau clearly enunciated the EU stand on any possible trade relations with a post-Brexit UK. This stand rests on an immovable foundation: EU functionaries know that anything less than a disaster for Britain will spell more than a disaster for the EU.

Should Britain make an economic success of it (every other kind has already been achieved by the sheer act of leaving), the EU may suffer a domino effect. Other countries, previously prepared to trade sovereignty for prosperity, will realise they’re getting a raw deal.

They’ll feel they could regain sovereignty and gain prosperity in one fell swoop, by following Britain out. A few years of that and the EU will be reduced to a single Franco-German state, called Allemance or Francmagne or perhaps the Fourth Reich.

Whenever Mr Neil cited any facts and statistics, Mme Loiseau responded with the air of wounded superciliousness so characteristic of the French political class: “I am surprised zat a journalist doesn’t know zis…”

In that spirit, she maintained that the EU accounts for most of Britain’s foreign trade. Actually, replied Mr Neil pedantically, it’s only 45 per cent. Mme Loiseau didn’t say that 45 per cent means most if the EU says it does, but her expression conveyed that very message.

Yet the argument wasn’t really about statistics. The EU, the ventriloquist to this woman’s dummy, wants Britain to obey all its social, environmental, economic and legal diktats, while no longer having even 1/28 of a say in how those diktats come about.

She calls it a “level playing field”. I’d call it bullying, which is one of the reasons we left that political contrivance in the first place. 

The EU, like any other political contrivance, kneads political terminology (along with facts and figures) with a dexterity normally found only at Korean massage parlours. The meaning of the terms they use depends solely on expediency and often has nothing to do with exact semantics.

In this case, the “level playing field” Britain is expected to dredge as a pre-condition for free trade means we should accept all the stifling, stultifying regulations that are successfully driving EU economies into recession. And, should disputes arise, they must be settled by the European Court of Justice.

Mr Neil couldn’t understand why, say, Canada can have a trade deal with the EU without satisfying such tyrannical demands, and we can’t. The pundit was being slightly disingenuous there.

He knows perfectly well that the EU defines free trade in ways that would have confounded Ricardo or Guizot. It insists that any, even supposedly independent, country wishing to trade freely with the EU must obey every EU law.

This condition is applied arbitrarily: Britain is supposed to toe the line, while, as Mr Neil pointed out, Canada isn’t. Mme Loiseau responded with her normal “I’m surprised zat…” petulance.

First, she said that Canada doesn’t have a free-trade deal with the EU, to which Mr Neil responded with the datum that 98 per cent of trade between Canada and the EU is duty-free. Having been caught out, Mme Loiseau made a startling geographical discovery.

Britain, she explained, isn’t Canada. For once she said something so blindingly obvious that one wonders why that observation had to be made. Mme Loiseau happily clarified:

Canada wanted a trade deal because she wanted to associate herself with the EU, while Britain wants one for the purpose of dissociation. That sounded as if Canada was about to apply for EU membership, while Britain wanted to use trade as an act of war.

No doubt that kind of drivel makes sense to EU fanatics, but it bemused Mr Neil. One can understand his predicament: it’s possible to reply sensibly only to a sensible statement. Instead of waiting for crazy actions to follow crazy words, it’s best just to walk away.

But duty called, and Mr Neil didn’t walk away. Instead he briefly outlined the economic and social problems besetting the EU in general and France in particular.

He even had the gall to mention the strikes paralysing France – only for Mme Loiseau to cut him off in mid-sentence. She was surprised zat a journalist could be so ignorant as not to know zat ze strikes had ended.

Quite, said Mr Neil. But they persisted for two months, following in the wake of the year-long gilets jaunes revolt. So, considering the economic plight of France, Germany, Italy and so on, could the EU afford to risk a trade war with Britain?

Mme Loiseau performed a Gallic shrug meaning the question was irrelevant. If Mr Neil thought zat zere would be no consequences after Brexit, he was sorely mistaken.

In other words, the EU is ready to cut off its nose to spite its face if that’s what it takes to make a point pour encourager les autres. That was predictable, for reasons I outline earlier.

Its mendacious protestations apart, the EU is a political, not economic, construct. Hence politics will always trump economics.

I hope Boris Johnson has the guts (he certainly has the parliamentary majority) to up the stakes. He should announce that, if the EU wishes to play that kind of stacked game, we hold some of the aces.

Britain could turn herself into a haven for foreign business and capital, a sort of larger version of Jersey, by loosening regulations, cutting taxes across the board and pursuing free-trade agreements with the rest of the world.  

When all those Volkswagens, BNPs and Enis scream bloody murder, and France’s youth unemployment grows beyond the present, already catastrophic, 21 per cent, one wonders if Mme Loiseau and her ilk will remain deaf.

If they do, they may be reminded yet again that France hasn’t exactly lived down her DNA of a revolutionary republic. But not to worry: I doubt our government is capable of playing so tough. Pity.

Progress marches inexorably across the globe, leaving no corner untouched. It pleases me to inform you that it has now reached parts of Malaysia and also Indonesia’s autonomous Aceh province.

Aceh is ruled by Sharia law, which tends to fall somewhat short of our exacting standards of women’s equality. The gap between Sharia and Western feminism hasn’t been completely closed, but I know you’ll join me in celebrating the growing proximity between the two.

In Aceh, the religious law is getting not only more feminist, but also more lenient. This, however, is mainly due to intercession on the part of the central government.

The local officials felt that only beheading or, at a pinch, stoning was a fitting punishment for hanky-panky. However, because of the global reach of the Internet, Indonesia’s government felt that might besmirch Indonesia’s otherwise sterling reputation.

Hence it stepped in, and the locals had to settle for less terminal chastisement involving a rattan cane. As far as transgressors are concerned, this was definitely a step in the right direction.

Crimes thus punished include gambling, adultery, drinking, homosexuality and extramarital sex, and, this still being a remote corner of the world, women are held to stricter standards of probity.

I don’t know whether the Koran says “spare the rod and spoil the woman”, but in any case Muslim men jealously guard the morality of their womenfolk. Hence a woman can be caned not only for having sex with a man other than her husband, but also for sitting close to a man in a coffee shop – even at adjacent tables.

Yet this isn’t a case of one punishment fitting all crimes: the number of lashes varies from just a few to 150, with the higher number guaranteeing that the lesson will last a lifetime, which in this case may be measured in days.

Where’s the feminism in that? you may wonder, having been irresistibly intrigued by the title above. Thought you’d never ask.

You see, until now both men and women have been invariably caned by men. However, the innate Muslim sense of justice prevailed, and Aceh struck a blow (as it were) for equality.

Henceforth women will be lashed by other women, those belonging to the newly formed flogging squad of Aceh’s Sharia Implementation Unit. Actually, recruiting the necessary numbers took quite some time because some women were too infirm in their faith to take on the task with alacrity.

However, the vacancies were eventually filled, and the new recruits underwent rigorous training. An important part of it isn’t only physical fitness but also mental strength.

According to Sharia police chief investigator Zakwan, the floggers must be trained to “have no mercy for those who violate God’s law”. That taken care of, they can concentrate on mastering proper technique.

The first woman flogger has already practised her newly acquired skill, earning a compliment from Mr Zakwan. “Her technique was nice,” he said.

I agree. Her technique was indeed nice, but it could still be improved. Perfection, after all, is unattainable in this world, being the sole prerogative of Allah.

This is where I think I could help by offering unsolicited advice. For I couldn’t help noticing that the cane is wielded in a manner similar to the flat forehand in tennis.

So, defying the outdated notion of “East is East, and West is West, and never the twain shall meet”, those devout female floggers should borrow a stroke from the infidel game of tennis.

Two words provide the key to achieving proper weight distribution and maximum cane speed at impact: kinetic chain.

In layman’s terms, this means putting all the relevant muscle groups to work by activating them in turn. The kinetic chain starts with the so-called unit turn: the flogger turns her shoulders, naturally taking the cane back, bends her knees slightly and loads up her back leg by putting most of her weight on it.

Having completed the backswing, she then steps forward, rotating her shoulders and hips in the same direction. As her weight is transferred onto her front leg, she starts the forward swing of the cane, keeping her wrist slightly cocked.

The speed at which the cane moves through the air should increase gradually, starting slow and reaching its maximum at impact. At that last moment, the wrist uncocks with a natural snap, guaranteeing most satisfying agony on the part of the target.

Since the stroke is essentially flat, there’s no immediate need to swing from low to high. However, at a more advanced stage, that element could be added for an extra slashing effect. Allah will rejoice, but the simpler technique will do to be going on with for the time being.

I’d offer my hands-on coaching services, but Penelope put her foot down. “Over my dead body,” she said. Not yours, dear. Over the bodies of those dissipated women who dare choose the wrong seat at a coffee shop.

The case of Sudesh Amman, gunned down by the police after stabbing two random passers-by in Streatham, reminds us yet again of an uncomfortable truth.

When it comes to Muslim terrorism especially, our law is ordure because it proceeds from a wrong notion.

Western governments fall over themselves trying to ascribe every such atrocity to individual grievances or idiosyncrasies. Heaven forbid they accept that people’s actions just might be motivated by their faith.

Assorted leaders feel duty-bound to insist that the terrorists’ faith has nothing to do with their behaviour. The omnipresent mantra maintains that “Islam is a religion of peace”.

One wonders what it is about Islam’s history and scriptural sources that begets this counterintuitive belief. Actually, that’s not what feeds it at all. Our politicians just share a widespread philistine conviction that everyone is like them, give or take.

Most of them are Christians, but only nominal ones. Christianity in no way affects what they feel, think or do. It’s merely a badge of some vague group identity.

Such politicians may still be good people. But they are bad Christians.

Being predominantly philistines, they believe that most Muslims are also good people, yet bad Muslims whose behaviour is as little inspired by their faith as the politicians’ behaviour is inspired by theirs.

But they are wrong in general, although some soi-disant Muslims indeed have as little piety as most soi-disant Christians. But the key difference is between ‘some’ and ‘most’.

Some Muslims drink alcohol, treat women with respect, go to the mosque only on high holidays if then, and pay no attention to its 300-odd Koran verses that call for violence towards infidels.

They are bad Muslims and, as such, may very well be good people. Good Muslims are different, and the better Muslims they are, the more hostile they are to Christians, Jews and the West in general.

Good Muslims, many of them British, dance in the street whenever a London bus or train is blown up by their coreligionists. Good Muslims believe that Sharia should take precedence over the law of the land, and 40 per cent of all British Muslims agree.

Over the past 1,400 years Islamic violence towards Westerners has only ever been mitigated by the West’s strength and resolve to keep it in check.

The strength is still there but, judging by the litany of Islam being a religion of peace, the resolve isn’t. And without resolve, ability counts for nothing.

The world began with an idea, God’s, and it may well perish by an idea, its own. In this particular instance too, the particulars of yet another act of Muslim terrorism get much attention, while its metaphysical origin is ignored.

The case of Sudesh Amman shows how the craven failure to acknowledge that Islam as such is our enemy stamps common sense into the dirt. Or drowns it in blood if you’d rather.

In 2018, Amman was sentenced to three years’ imprisonment for disseminating jihadist literature and openly calling for mass murder. Such a short sentence was derisory to begin with, but what followed was sheer madness.

He was released halfway into his term, which happens automatically unless the convict does something awful in prison. I don’t know if Amman had received some deradicalisation training, but he probably had.

Against every evidence of rampant recidivism, our governments insist that prisons should be mainly educational, rather than punitive, facilities, and that most criminals leave their cells rehabilitated and ready to do charitable work in hospices.

In this case, however, the authorities showed some lack of faith in the success of Amman’s rehabilitation. In fact, he was still considered so dangerous that his every step was monitored by as many as 25 police officers, some of them armed.

This explains why Amman was shot dead less than 60 seconds into his stabbing spree. However, while congratulating the officers involved, one can’t help asking, nay screaming, this natural question: “Why the hell was he at large in the first place?!?”

A government’s primary function is to protect its citizens from harm. Our government, hamstrung by its ideological wokishness, is remiss on this score.

Our ministers refuse to accept that, as far as we are concerned, good Muslims are ipso facto bad people who endanger our society. That’s why no measure currently mooted will succeed.

For example, the government is likely to abandon the provision for automatic early release. That’s good, but are we to understand that if, say, Amman had served his full three-year sentence, he wouldn’t have knifed anybody?

Also mentioned is a further educational effort aimed at converting good Muslims into bad. That too is doomed to failure because good, which is to say devout, which is to say fanatical, Muslims won’t be swayed by rational arguments.

If such measures won’t work, what will? What are we going to do about it? as Britons invariably ask.

My answer is let’s first agree on what it is. Once we’ve done so, the specifics will take care of themselves.

The Ammans of this world can’t be allowed to roam our streets, before, after or instead of their incarceration. Keeping them off can be achieved by various measures, none of which I can confidently predict will be taken.

I’d start with the old notion of protectio trahit subjectionem, et subjectio protectionem. Loosely translated, it means that citizenship, the right to be protected by one’s country, is contingent on one’s allegiance, submission to the country’s laws.

Since Amman and his ilk manifestly renounce such allegiance, their citizenship should be revoked, regardless of where they were born. Since they wish to live by Sharia law, I’m sure they’ll be happy to be deported to a country where it’s in force.

Then, any mosque or Islamic centres in which a single jihadist word is uttered must be summarily shut. The same goes for Muslim schools, newspapers and other media.

If a jihadist crime has been committed, the perpetrator’s faith must be treated as an aggravating, rather than extenuating, circumstance. The ensuing sentences would then be measured not in months or years, but in decades.

Also, the death penalty for jihadist murder must be reintroduced, bringing the criminals together with their 72 virgins gagging for it in paradise. If we feel justified killing murderous jihadists in Iraq or Syria, why can’t we do the same at home? If a moral distinction exists, it escapes me.

And so on, so forth, one exercise in futility after another. For no government will ever have the clarity of thought and the strength of resolve to do anything about the problem – nor indeed acknowledge its true source.

All we’ll hear is a companion mantra to “what are we going to do about it”: “something must be done”. And something will be done, to no effect whatsoever.

One wonders how Queen Victoria’s government would have approached this problem. Oh well, it’s best not to.

The Duke and Duchess of Cambridge adorned last night’s Bafta ceremony, he in the capacity of the British academy’s president, she as his charming wife.

I don’t know about Kate, who has mastered the essential royal art of keeping shtum, but Will, who hasn’t, wasn’t happy. His chagrin was caused by the absence of off-white winners in the directing and acting categories.

Britain, he said, has produced “incredible film-makers, actors, producers, directors and technicians, men and women from all backgrounds and ethnicities enriching our lives through film.” However, BAFTA has seen fit to ignore those incredible achievements at awards’ time.

Will just couldn’t get his head around that slap in the face of modern sensibilities. “It simply cannot be right in this day and age,” he fumed, even to be “talking again about the need to do more to ensure diversity in the sector and in the awards process”.

He’s right about that: this should never come up in civilised conversation. If it does, people might think that Harry isn’t the only apple that didn’t fall far from the tree that was Diana.

Why does HRH think the incomprehensible need to talk about this state of affairs arose in the first place? I can see only two possibilities, even theoretical ones.

One, Bafta’s voting members are all racist bigots who have formed a conspiracy to keep deserving black aspirants out. Two, they actually voted for what they regarded as the more deserving candidates.

The first possibility really isn’t possible. Anyone who follows such matters knows that Bafta members, as a group, fit every nuance of the word ‘woke’, and then some that this polyvalent word hasn’t yet acquired.

This lot are more likely to support Hamas or Jeremy Corbyn than allow a racist thought to cross their minds. This, no matter how broadly HRH would choose to define racism. Vote for an actor just because he is black – possibly. Vote against him for the same reason – never.

That leaves only one possibility: they genuinely voted on merit, assisted in this undertaking by Britain’s demographics. It pains me, a lifelong champion of diversity, to acknowledge this, but blacks make up only 1.63 per cent of the country’s population.

Even assuming that they are proportionately represented in the film industry, which they probably aren’t for various social reasons, on purely statistical grounds they can’t be expected to dominate BAFTA awards – much as Will and I feel they should.

For one thing, such a worthy end would demand rather drastic means. Script writers would have to concentrate on producing stories that involve blacks. That’s unlikely, considering that most writers are shamefully white.

Even if they are as passionate about diversity as Will and I are, when it comes to practising their craft writers tend to write about what they know. If most of them are white middle class (I’m guessing here, but the guess rings true), those chaps would be hard-pressed to pack their plot lines with black characters.

That means fewer roles for black actors – unless of course our cinema follows the worthy if recent tradition of our theatre and begins to cast black actors in white roles, such as Hamlet or Lady Macbeth.

To wit, Sam Mendes’s 1917, which won seven prizes last night, including the one for the best film. It’s about the First World War, fought at a time when most inhabitants of these Isles were irredeemably white. Hence, to introduce even a meagre platoon of black protagonists, Mr Mendes, who is a stickler for historical accuracy, would have had to err against his artistic integrity.

So how does HRH Prince Will propose to “ensure diversity in the awards process”? Correct me if I’m wrong, but I’m afraid he wishes to abandon meritocracy in said process (a note to HRH: the word process is almost always redundant – “in the awards” would have been better English, unless of course proper style is discriminatory).

Hence black directors, actors and so on should be given BAFTA awards simply on the strength of their race, regardless of merit. Americans call this affirmative action, we call it reverse discrimination, but highly visible public figures in either country generally refrain from demanding it in so many words.

Reverse discrimination is these days practised much more than the old kind, but quietly. The assumption is that it’s one of those things that go without saying.

Will should really hold his polo horses, for a while at any rate. His own family has already taken a step towards racial integration (or rather half a step, for Meghan is only half-black). There’s no need to take another stride just yet, especially considering how the first one has worked out.

I’m not suggesting he douse his flaming conscience with water, but perhaps indulging it in private would do him – and, more important, our monarchy – quite some good. He has good role models to follow in his family, and I mean his grandmother and his great-grandfather. Not his mother.

Decorum won’t allow me to write the next, logical sentence. But you get the sentiment.

Perhaps it could have been expressed differently, say with a reference to shaking their dust from our feet. That would have made the message more civilised, but no more heartfelt.

For the British have regained their right to be just that, British, a nation governed the British way, according to British customs, history and laws. That’s not what our metropolitan trendies want to be.

They’d rather belong to a vast quasi-imperial contrivance, whose fine points the plebs are supposed to be too stupid to grasp. ‘Plebs’ to them has to be not a class notion, but a political one, defined as a full synonym of Leavers.

Otherwise this attitude would be even more idiotic than it is, because the ranks of Leavers included some of our finer minds, such as the late Roger Scruton, not to mention a large group of my close friends, who not only know and understand European culture, but also produce some of it.

Any one of them – well, false modesty aside, us – is not noticeably inferior intellectually to any Remainer out there, or perhaps all of them combined. But those sore losers do have a point: many of those who voted Leave may have trouble coming up with a tight definition of, say, sovereignty.

Yet they’d have no such problem defining identity. Not that the need would ever arise: British people don’t need to define Britishness. It’s indelibly written in their hearts.

They love their country, are proud of it and hate to see it lose its character to an influx of alien laws, regulations and – truth be told – throngs. Some of them, not many, may indeed dislike foreigners. But, more important, all of them love Britain and the British.

More than just about any other European national identity, Britishness has a vital political component. France can remain France under her 17 different constitutions adopted during the time when Britain has had just one. France can even remain France as part of Nazi Germany.

Britain isn’t like that. Take away our monarchy, the sovereignty of our Parliament, and the rule of our common law, and Britain wouldn’t be Britain any longer.

The bonds tying together France are mostly cultural, linguistic and perhaps even gastronomic. That’s why the country did well under German occupation: everybody still spoke French, the food was less plentiful but still French, Sartre’s dramas were staged and Marcel Carné’s films shot – Paris reste Paris, as Maurice Chevalier was singing. 

That’s why the French are happy to emulate Messrs Esau and Faust and dissolve their sovereignty in the cauldron of a stew cooked by German and French bureaucrats towards the end of Germany’s previous attempt to unite Europe.

And that’s why they – even the more intelligent among them – fail to understand the British on this subject. The French don’t realise that, while Britain has always been governed by the rule of law, she, unlike France, has never been governed by the rule of lawyers.

Most of our laws, even when they don’t have obvious scriptural antecedents, have gradually developed over centuries as reflections of the English national character. That’s why some things that are traditionally sacrosanct to our governments, such as property rights, are to those clever French legislators statements of intent at best and petty annoyances at worst.

Hence, for example, our country roads are hardly ever as straight as in France. A countryside is made up of private holdings, making it impossible for a British planner to put a ruler on the map, draw a straight line some 30 miles long and turn it into a road without encroaching on someone’s property. Yet that’s precisely what the French did throughout the 19^th century, most blatantly during the reign of Napoleon III.

Personally, I’m grateful for this: driving along those straight ribbons is easier and safer than along the meandering sunken lanes in England. But they never let one forget how profoundly different, not to say incompatible, the two countries are.

The French refuse to acknowledge this. They have an ill-conceived notion that they could recapture their past grandeur by hanging on to Germany’s coattails, while bossing every other EU member.

I think they are wrong even as far as France’s interests are concerned. But that’s their business, I just wish they kept their noses out of ours. Fat chance.

By way of a fond good-bye, Manny Macron explained that the Brexit campaign only became victorious due to “lies, exaggerations and simplifications”. Presumably, as opposed to the Remain campaign that was the paragon of veracity, integrity and subtlety.

To illustrate his point, Manny lied in his very next sentence. Britain, he said, became the first country to leave the European Union in 70 years. This lie is popular with all EU fanatics, including our home-grown ones.

For the European Union, a single supranational state in the making, hasn’t existed for 70 years. It was founded on 7 February, 1992, at Maastricht. Until then, it had been called the European Economic Community.

The difference goes beyond semantics. For the intention of the EU founders has always been political: to create a single state. Yet, for tactical purposes, they lied that all they wanted was economic harmony. This is how one of the EU godfathers, Jean Monnet, put it in the 1950s:

“Europe’s nations should be guided towards the superstate without their people understanding what is happening. This can be accomplished by successive steps, each disguised as having an economic purpose but which will irreversibly lead to federation.”

Thus the EU is a political contrivance built on the termite-eaten foundation of perpetual lies. When one of its functionaries accuses those who exposed the lies for what they are of being themselves liars, only one answer is possible.

In Manny’s own language: “Va t’en…” In our own language, congratulations, Britain. We may still end up in hell, but at least it’ll be one of our own making.

The F-word, the C-word and even – as a tribute to our American friends – the compound M-word are more or less standard fare on TV.

But let the A-word, as in ape, cross your lips and you’re in deep trouble, as ITV news anchorman Alastair Stewart has found out.

In a spat with a (black!) man on Twitter, he had the gall to quote the (white!) playwright William Shakespeare: “But man, proud man, Dress’d in a little brief authority. Most ignorant of what he’s most assur’d, his glassy essence — like an angry ape.”

His correspondent justifiably complained that he had been called an ape, and as a result Mr Stewart had to tender his resignation, accompanied by regrets about his “misjudgement”.

He clearly has a firmer grasp of classic literature than of modern realities. Otherwise, he would never have fallen into that racist trap. His excuses sounded feeble and meaningless, even though Mr Stewart showed that he had used the same quote before when arguing with a white man.

He ought to have known that certain words are to be avoided on pain of dire consequences – regardless of any absence of racial connotations.

As a lifelong fighter against racism and for diversity, I’m pleased to offer a short, by no means exhaustive, sample of such objectionable words, and also put forth some suggestions on how they can be circumvented.

You’ll find that in some instances such detours make the sentence longer, but that shouldn’t put you off. Think of it as taking side roads to avoid a motorway gridlock. Yes, your new route may be longer, but that wouldn’t bother you, would it?

In that spirit, here are my choices. Make them yours and you just may be able to hang on to your job for a while longer.

Ape (or monkey) should never be used. Simian is a good substitute noun, and imitate is a safe alternative for ape as a verb. A woman may thus discourage a man by saying “no simian business”. A “simian puzzle tree” will take some getting used to, but time is on our side.

Banana is off limits. When shopping at a greengrocer’s, just ask for a pound of curved yellow tropical fruit, making sure he understands you aren’t asking for a homosexual hunchback from Burma.

Black may be acceptable in some situations but, to be on the safe side, is best to avoid. BlackBerry mobiles can be just as easily described as AfroCaribbeanBerry mobiles.

Boogie-woogie is a wrong name for that style of jazz. Call it jitterbug: what you lose in accuracy, you gain in job prospects.

Coconut is a fruit of the palm tree. Why not call it just that to avoid trouble?

Coon, as in raccoon, is so offensive that, if you have to talk about American mammals, call them rac-youknowwhat.

Jig may have been an appropriate name for that dance in 16^th century Britain, but in the 20^th century you’d be lucky to get away with merely a sacking if you use the word. You can’t go wrong with reel, though it’s not quite the same thing.

Jungle is a tropical rainforest. Avoid the word like the plague in all uses, such as j=music or j-bunny. Ideally, you should campaign for Kipling’s Jungle Book to be renamed Tropical Rainforest Book.

Niggardly and niggling are strictly taboo. Exercise caution even with phonetic associations appearing in words like renege and sniggering. Nigeria and Niger are hard to avoid, although it’s worth trying circuitous routes like West African country with Lagos (or, in the latter case, Niamey) as its capital. Better safe than sorry.

Sambo is a Russian martial art. Use the word in any other meaning, and unemployment beckons.

Spade is grossly pejorative, a sacking offence no matter how it’s used. Say shovel instead, as in “call a shovel a shovel”.

Never say spear. Always say javelin, even if it means quoting from Shakejavelin.

Watermelon is a Cucurbitaceae, in botany. A much safer word, that, but don’t ask me how to pronounce it.

Oh well, this will do for a start. The important thing is for you to get into the general spirit of things, for which the poncy word is Zeitgeist. Whenever you open your mouth in public, think of a minefield, where one wrong step can reduce you to red spray.

If you’re careful, you just may negotiate your way safely and get on the right side of the racially sensitive people, among whom I proudly count myself. I hope this little glossary has been helpful. Good luck, and watch your step.

Middle-class students will be squeezed out, as Oxford and Cambridge Universities want to increase ‘deprived’ admissions, while keeping the overall number of students constant.

My immediate reaction is that they ought to rename their post-graduate degrees PD, to accommodate an influx of students who drop their aitches.

Such petty, vituperative snobbery aside, this gives me a warm feeling of nostalgia, for I grew up in a country where ideology overrode reason. That created a twilight zone of virtual reality, enforced as actual.

Or perhaps the feeling isn’t exactly warm, for I hated life there. Hence, when still a youngster, I flew like a moth towards the light of the West – only to be singed by the realisation that twilight descended there too.

An essential feature of it is rampant egalitarianism, the urge to flatten out human peaks and troughs so they all converge into an amorphous mass of mediocrity. It’s especially painful to observe this at two of the world’s most venerable universities, whose remit is to create intellectual elites.

They ignore that the world is organised vertically, not horizontally. This applies to every aspect of life: social, cultural, economic, intellectual, or moral.

Hierarchical pyramids exist, and they can only be truncated at the top. This is possible to do, what with the state wielding a whole set of hacksaws designed for that purpose. But the consequences of such an operation are invariably catastrophic.

Oxbridge seems to proceed from the assumption that most people, and all classes, are equally capable of academic attainment.

Hence, if they don’t achieve equally, social injustice is at work, which can be corrected by political or administrative action. If the lower classes are underrepresented in a student body, then this has to be put down either to discrimination or to poverty.

That’s simply not the case at a level of large numbers, and Oxbridge is talking strictly in numerical terms. No other considerations seem to apply.

Yet they are vital, and here I have to mention some hard truths that no mass publication would ever accept. For different classes do differ in academic ability.

These days we are expected to define class distinctions as variations in wealth only, with wealth seen as some random force majeure. Yet human factors are usually both the cause and function of wealth differences.

How did the middle classes earn their money in the first place? The answer is, by intelligence, drive and self-discipline.

Logically then, the poor lack such qualities, for if they didn’t they wouldn’t remain poor in an economy seldom short of opportunities. Once again, we are talking not individuals but averages here, which is never my preference where people are concerned.

But these are the terms chosen by Oxbridge, and just about every modern institution. None of them speaks about attracting outstanding or even deserving women and members of lower classes or ethnic minorities. Percentages are all that matters.

Alas, when a family has consecutive generations of underachievement, especially of the kind fuelled by state handouts, each subsequent generation finds itself at a greater disadvantage.

For middleclass incomes tend to promote middleclass values. One such is commitment to self-perpetuation, to which end many middleclass families try to inoculate their offspring against the more toxic aspects of modernity.

They help their children learn to read at an early age and practise that skill, even in occasional preference to video games. They then send their young to good schools, thereby often sacrificing their own pleasures.

Above all, they set a good example, by reading the odd book, going to the odd museum, attending the odd concert of real music and leading reasonably sober lives.

Moreover, middleclass men and women tend to marry their own kind, creating solid inputs into their families’ gene pools. That’s partly why, for whatever it’s worth, children growing up in middleclass neighbourhoods have higher IQ scores than children raised on council estates.

All things considered, for good universities to retain their status, most of their students should indeed come from middleclass families. Provided, and this is an important proviso, capable children from the lower classes aren’t left behind.

Whenever that happens, a problem exists that must be solved. And the solution starts with treating people not as numbers on statistical charts, but as individuals.

No country is so blessed with a surfeit of talent that it can afford to let gifted children fall through the cracks. After three generations of comprehensive non-education, Britain must dedicate every effort to identifying and fostering capable youngsters, whatever their walk in life.

The question is, how? Well, certainly not by introducing faceless statistical quotas owing their existence to ideologies proved destructive everywhere they’ve been applied in earnest.

Egalitarian comprehensive ‘education’ has failed to achieve its manifest purpose – quite the contrary. By destroying grammar schools, our socialists destroyed opportunities for clever children from poor families to be admitted to our best universities on merit.

The two-tier system of the past assured that some 25 per cent of the alumni were well-educated, and the rest still adequately prepared to fend for themselves in the economic rough-and-tumble.

This was perhaps the world’s most successful system of public education, and the world sighed enviously. Now, seeing that thousands of our youngsters leave secondary schools functionally illiterate, the world smirks contemptuously.

That’s where the first steps towards a more diversified social mix at Oxbridge should be taken. Reinstating grammar schools wouldn’t lower the academic standards at universities and would probably improve them.

What’s being proposed, however, will turn our universities into workshops for social engineering. The educational value of a university degree has already fallen under the level of the grammar school diploma of yesteryear. Now Oxbridge is trying to pull it down even lower than that.

A PD degree, anyone?

At times I think that freedom from speech should be considered a fundamental human right – especially when celebrities pontificate on subjects outside their immediate expertise.

John McEnroe was an inspiring tennis player who has become the best tennis commentator I know. I’m willing to hang on to his every word when he talks tennis because there’s much he can teach me.

That’s where my admiration for him begins and ends. I don’t think a chap who has largely spent his life outside tennis doing drugs, playing pop music and hanging out on the celebrity circuit has earned his right to a public audience when the subject matter goes beyond sliced serves and drop shots.

McEnroe clearly disagrees because he saw fit to deliver himself of a nauseating rant aimed at Margaret Court.

The on-going Australian Open marks the 50 anniversary of Mrs Court’s 1970 season, when she won all four majors in a single year. Considering she’s one of only five players of either sex ever to have done so, that achievement is worthy of a celebration.

McEnroe and other woke tennis players beg to differ. For Mrs Court has offended everything progressive mankind holds dear by lamenting that the women’s tour is “full of lesbians”.

Billie Jean King, Martina Navratilova, Samantha Stosur and Rennae Stubbs took exception to that observation, and rather aggressively at that. Considering that all four are lesbians themselves, one struggles to understand what their problem is.

Do they think Mrs Court’s observation is inaccurate? If so, that’s like pub crawlers insisting that Britain has no drinking problem. So no, that’s not the nature of their objection.

You see, Mrs Court has openly expressed her opposition to homomarriage and, truth be told, to the prevalence of homosexuality in general, not just in women’s tennis. There she proceeds from a solid starting point.

For, after she stopped playing, Mrs Court became a Pentecostal pastor. Now I regard all such Protestant sects as more heretical and neo-pagan than Christian, but that’s neither here nor there.

What matters is that Mrs Court sees herself as a missionary acting on Jesus’s commandment to spread the word (“Go ye therefore, and teach all nations…”). And it so happens that, in spite of being a sectarian, she enunciates the ecumenical Christian position on this issue.

The trouble is that, to the woke majority, any Christian position is ipso facto offensive. When it challenges their cherished ideology, it becomes downright criminal.

Hence McEnroe’s rant, disguised with his chatty, smiley bonhomie. Mrs Court, he shouted, holds revolting homophobic views and therefore her grand slam deserves no celebration.

He then let the cat out of the bag by peculiarly citing Mrs Court’s approval of South African apartheid as proof of her homophobia. The secret he thereby revealed is that, like Greek philosophers, the woke brigade also has its ‘transcendentals’.

If Plato and Aristotle regarded beauty, truth and morality as inseparable ontological properties of man, this lot cast racism, homophobia, misogyny and so on in the same role. Since they are all aspects of the same whole, an affront to one interchangeable virtue is an affront to all.

Thus someone who trembles with fear whenever a homosexual enters a room may just as well be described as a racist, while a chap who screams “There ain’t no black in the Union Jack!” may be tagged a homophobe, misogynist or global warming denier.

To McEnroe, Margaret Smith is a “crazy aunt” who “uses the Bible to say what she wants”, as opposed to the woke-proof practice of shoving a gram of coke up one’s nose and then strumming one’s guitar and screeching gibberish to some stupefyingly monotonous beat.

Mrs Court is a ventriloquist, explained McEnroe, and the Bible is her dummy. If he insists on this metaphor, then surely it ought to be the other way around? I’m confused, even though I’ve never snorted cocaine.

The next day, McEnroe and Navratilova unfurled a banner at the Australian Open, calling for the Margaret Court Arena to be renamed. That act of vandalism was too much even for Tennis Australia.

Even though allowing that Mrs Court’s views “do not align with our values of equality, diversity and inclusion”, the federation issued a statement saying that “two high-profile guests” had breached their protocols.

Translated from Australian, McEnroe and Navratilova should mind their own business and shut up. A sound suggestion, that, but the Aussies should dream on: this lot will never shut up.

Navratilova in particular has solid family reasons to pursue this matter ad nauseam: “My wife Julia said you’re complaining about it, but what are you going to do?” Why, mouth off and wave banners, of course. Why?

The unbridgeable gap is very much in evidence. Martina’s ‘wife’ is named Julia; Margaret’s husband is named Barrymore. Both women are too vociferous for my taste, but only one of them is deeply offensive. And it’s not Mrs Court.

I owe this apt neologism to the Russo-American commentator Andrey Illarionov, who correctly identifies ecofanaticism as potentially the deadliest ideology that has ever afflicted mankind.

As presidents and prime ministers listen in rapt attention, that deranged child outlines plans for a genocide exceeding by orders of magnitude everything red and brown socialists have managed so far.

Or rather those craven, deluded grown-ups listen without hearing. If they actually heard and, better still, pondered what Greta is demanding, one would hope they’d be horrified.

Let’s not be so negligent and concentrate on what Greta had to say for herself at Davos a few days ago:“We don’t need a ‘low-carbon economy. We don’t need ‘lower emissions’. Emissions must be stopped… we must forget about ‘net zero’. We need actual zero… We don’t want it to be done by 2050, 2030 or even 2025. We want it now.”

Considering that fossil fuels provide 85.5 per cent of world energy, acceding to Greta’s demand would spell an economic and social catastrophe the likes of which the world has never seen – complete with mass famines, deadly epidemics and even deadlier violence all over the globe.

Scientists estimate the death toll of that exercise at somewhere between one and two billion souls. Messrs Lenin, Stalin, Hitler, Mao and Pol Pot must be turning green in their graves.

Yet we should exhume their memory and realise that a propensity for mass murder wasn’t the only thing they have in common with the gretins. Those monsters each had their pet hates, but one they shared was hatred of ‘capitalism’, a term they all gratefully borrowed from Marx.

Greta too inveighs against capitalists and their profits every chance she gets, but it takes likeminded adults to put such juvenile tantrums into an ideological nutshell.

Thus Chistina Figueros, the UN climate supremo (and let’s not forget that it was the UN that first screamed that the end of the world was nigh): “This is the first time in the history of mankind that we are setting ourselves the task of intentionally, within a defined period of time, to change the economic development model that has been reigning for at least 150 years, since the Industrial Revolution.”

That offensive model of economic development brought unprecedented prosperity; scientific, technological and medical progress; the end of both hunger and dependence on the whims of nature. The only places unable to boast such accomplishments are those where this ‘model’ was ignored, expunged or introduced belatedly.

Now the gretins wish to plunge the whole world into the same misery, citing in their support the kind of flimsy scientific evidence that would never pass muster in a less politicised area.

Facts that contradict their inhuman ideology are either hushed up or falsified. For example, they’ll never acknowledge that in the 30 years between 1946 and 1976, when little attention was being paid to reducing carbon emissions, the average world temperature dropped by 0.1 degrees centigrade – and it remained constant over the next 40 years or so.

What the gretins describe as a crisis is in fact a normal process observable throughout history. At times it used to be more vigorous than now, including during the periods long before mankind began to burn hydrocarbons.

That’s not to say that no anthropogenic input into climate exists. It does, but it’s immeasurably minuscule as compared to such natural factors as solar radiation, volcanic activity or cloud cover.

However, it’s useless to engage gretins on a rational level. They are driven neither by reason nor by empirical evidence, but by ideological, politicised hatred (see the photo above).

Arguments won’t defeat fire-eating ideologues consumed with hatred – they can only be stopped by political or even, in extreme cases, coercive action. Instead, all those prime ministers, presidents and captains of industry nod their agreement, while shielding their faces from Greta’s spittle.

They don’t realise, or more likely don’t care, that, by acquiescing to the gretins’ shrill demands for misconstrued political reasons, they are courting a global genocidal disaster. And I’m not talking about global warming.

It was the bane of my existence. Hardly a minute went by that my body didn’t feel like a dungeon in which the real me languished.

People looked at my squat frame, broader than it was tall, without realising that what they were seeing was a torture chamber in which my true body was being broken on the rack of wrong identity.

As years went by, things got worse. If in the past my constricting shell resembled an inverted pyramid, albeit one only 5’7” tall, eventually the midriff caught up with the shoulders, making my wrong body look more like that of a panda with a drinking problem.

God knows I tried to shed that offence to my true self. I played all sorts of sports, mostly tennis, only to find that didn’t offer an escape route. I cut down my alcohol consumption to a mere three times the BMA recommended allowance. I reduced the size of steaks I was eating from 16 to 12 ounces.

Nothing worked. The warder in my corporal prison wouldn’t unlock the door.

As my wrong body continued to expand, so did the trauma. The thought of suicide crossed my mind, but I chased it away, realising that thereby not only would my dead body keep its offensive shape, but it would also smell foul.

Obviously, I thought of getting psychiatric help, the more Freudian the better. Maybe, just maybe, my real body was imprisoned by my subconscious desire to bonk my Mum, kill my Dad and gouge my eyes out.

However, one look at the analysts’ price lists slammed me back into my solitary confinement. Despair set in. All hope fell by the wayside, as I tried, yet failed, to prepare myself to life without hope.

But then a miracle occurred. It was a secular miracle, naturally, for no others exist. Yet the effect was as liberating. My spine straightened out, gloom left my mind, scales fell off my eyes.

I realised that all I had to do was identify as one with the body of a Hellenic God, Apollo this time, not my customary Bacchus. The prison gates were instantly flung open, and my true self strutted out, bristling with muscle and self-confidence.

To be sure, I still look like my old self to the outside world. But that can change. The world can be forced to see me as I see myself.

All it takes is a smart political campaign proclaiming my right to identify as anything I please. Today I choose to identify as Apollo, tomorrow I may decide that Venus offers greater opportunities for social advancement, especially in the entertainment industry. And the day after tomorrow I may switch back.

In fact, if such is my wont, I may become a pendulum constantly swinging between Apollo and Venus, and the world will have to accept me as what I am each day (even if I myself may become somewhat confused).

That means that, among other things, I’d be entitled to go into any public lavatory, whether marked as A (for Apollo) or V (for Venus). In fact, the best solution would be to eliminate such yoke-like restrictions and turn every such facility into a uni-divine AV.

We must put an end to lavatorial separatism, which discriminates against people who, like me, fight for AV rights. And if you disagree, you’d better hire a burly bodyguard, for I’m coming after you, you antediluvian fossil.