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A year ago almost to the day, the Russian sub Krasnodar fired a cruise missile that killed 27 civilians in the Ukrainian city of Vinnitsa.

The sub commander, Capt. Stanislav Rzhitsky, has since retired. He got a sinecure job in the council of the city after which his submarine was named and looked forward to a long life in mufti.

Yet, unlike people shot point-blank, old habits die hard. As befits a naval officer, Capt. Rzhitsky kept himself fit by going on obligatory morning jogs, rain or shine. And, as befits a modern naval officer, he kept abreast of recent advances in electronics.

Used as he was to daily routine, Capt. Rzhitsky never varied his running route and used a sophisticated American app to track his progress. That proved to be his undoing.

A hitman could prepare for his mission at leisure. By logging in on the same app, he knew exactly what route Capt. Rzhitsky would take and was able to reconnoitre it. He found a spot not covered by CCTV cameras and yesterday morning killed Rzhitsky with four 9mm bullets in the back. Happy anniversary of that missile launch, Stanislav!

One camera did manage to catch the assailant, producing a blurry image of a middle-aged man wearing a turquoise cap. That narrowed it down a lot. The Russian police are now looking for a middle-aged man who by now must have ditched his distinctive cap. Best of luck to them – such airtight identification is bound to bring the sword of justice down on the assassin’s head.

Different morals can be drawn from this incident, but the one springing to my mind on the spur of the moment involved jogging. You see, I have complex feelings about it, not all of them praise-worthy.

I’ve only ever attempted it once, almost 50 years ago, in Houston, Texas. As a competitive tennis player, I felt duty-bound to hone my fitness to razor sharpness. One had to be in pretty good shape to play in Houston’s infernal conditions, with the temperature seldom dropping below 95 degrees and humidity below 95 per cent.

One morning, I manfully ran a mile in some six minutes, which exertion both exhausted and bored me to such an extent that I’ve never tried it again since. Illogically, I began to resent joggers whom I both envied for their perseverance and despised for being only marginally less sanctimonious than cyclists (I told you my feelings were complex).

In that pre-Christian period of my life, I even harassed joggers, especially those who had Walkman earpieces grafted into their heads. If I espied one of them running along the road I was driving on, I’d shift into neutral, roll noiselessly behind him and simultaneously rev up the engine and hit the horn.

That way I dropped some of them into the gutter and made all of them rather irate. One chap even tried to chase me on foot, but he didn’t stand much of a chance against an 8-cylinder engine.

During the same pre-Christian period I experienced intense schadenfreude when Jim Fixx, the guru and populariser of that objectionable activity, keeled over in mid-stride and died at 52. Jogging kills, I thought then and again today, when reading about Capt. Rzhitsky’s demise.

That wasn’t the only thought though. One also has to consider the moral issues involved, such as one of criminal responsibility for carrying out criminal orders.

The so-called Nuremberg defence didn’t work at the eponymous trial in 1946, and it didn’t work for Eichmann in 1962. That established a legal precedent that applies to Russia’s bandit raid on the Ukraine.

Any military man who kills, rapes, tortures or robs civilians is criminally culpable even if he acts on specific orders from his superiors. Neither does the intent defence quite work.

If tried by due process, Capt. Rzhitsky would probably claim he didn’t mean to kill civilians (some of them children). The missile he fired was aimed at a military target, but veered off course or malfunctioned. So sorry and all that, but that unfortunate accident just couldn’t be helped.

If experts in rocketry and ballistics had subjected that claim to a painstaking forensic analysis, they might have agreed. That would have diminished the officer’s culpability, but it wouldn’t have expunged it.

One could argue persuasively that any participant in a collective war crime bears individual responsibility for any specific crimes committed. On that logic, Capt. Rzhitsky was guilty not only of his murder of 27 civilians, but also of all the massacres committed in Bucha and Melitopol, of every bombing of civilians – some of it deliberate, all of it indiscriminate – throughout the Ukraine, from Lvov to Kiev to Kharkov.

There is no doubt in my mind that Capt. Rzhitsky deserved punishment, probably of the capital variety. But is assassination the best way of administering it?

It’s not. It just happens to be the only way the Ukraine could get justice. It would be more civilised to put thousands of Russians in the dock, which is what happened to thousands of Germans at the end of the Second World War.

Yet for such due process to take place, Russia would have to be defeated and occupied, the way Germany was. Such an outcome, though eminently desirable, simply isn’t on the cards.

Just driving the Russians back to the 1991 borders would constitute a resounding victory for the Ukraine, sending all those war criminals running back into Russia, tail between the legs.

Once there, however, they’d never be extradited in a million years. Hence, assuming the assassination was commissioned by the Ukrainian secret services, their choice wasn’t between rough and legal justice. It was between rough justice and none.

I have no tears to shed for Capt. Rzhitsky – my lachrymose reservoir has been depleted by the pictures of murdered Ukrainian children and their grieving parents. Rzhitsky got what he deserved. He jogged his last.     

Facts first. An unidentified BBC presenter, a household name, has paid a teenager of unspecified sex large sums for explicit selfies.

That fair exchange went on for three years, starting when the teenager was 17. The age of consent in Britain is 16, but any person under 18 is covered by the Protection of Children Act 1978. Thus a 17-year-old can marry but is still considered a child for such photographic purposes.

Two months ago, the model’s family complained to the BBC, asking the Corporation to tell the presenter to stop those payments, which by then had totalled £35,000. Apparently, the recipient used his modelling fees to buy crack to which he had become addicted.

(As I’ve mentioned, the teenager’s sex hasn’t been disclosed. Nevertheless, I’m using the masculine personal pronouns for two reasons.

First, grammatical tradition has it that, when the sex is unknown, “a man embraces a woman”, and I won’t go back on it for any half-witted woke reasons. Second, taking a stab in the dark, I suspect the teenager was a boy, on the general assumption that pornographic images of girls are more widely available, less controversial and therefore cheaper. Third, it’s the BBC, isn’t it?)

Yet the BBC waited several weeks before first taking the presenter off the air and then suspending him. That doesn’t even begin to describe his troubles if he is found guilty.

The Metropolitan Police have got into the act, and those chaps play for keeps when such allegations are made. They don’t even bother investigating burglaries and muggings, but give them something naughty, especially with woke implications, and they go all out.

The wayward presenter must be quaking in his Church’s: violating the aforementioned Act is punishable by up to 10 years in prison. Yet if the TV star is also found guilty under the Child Pornography Act, the potential sentence is up to 14 years.

Since the BBC is at this stage protecting the transgressor’s privacy, correctly in my view, speculations are rife about his identity. So rife, in fact, that several presenters have felt called upon to scream “It ain’t me, gov” publicly, or words to that effect.

Meanwhile, I think this case is God’s way of telling the BBC it’s paying its presenters way too much. Shelling out £35,000 for a few dirty pictures, of the kind that supposedly can be downloaded for free, suggests that the sum is but pocket change for the presenter.

So it must be. For example, Gary Lineker is on £1.35 million a year, and that’s after he has taken a pay cut. No wonder he was one of the presenters hastily disclaiming guilt in this scandal.

Now, I don’t think it’s anybody’s business how much a company pays to how many of its employees. This case, however, is different because the BBC is funded by the Exchequer, which is to say by the public – us. That justifies nosiness on my part: after all, a few pennies of that £35,000 came from me.

What’s worse is the hypocrisy of it all, on everyone’s part: the BBC, the newspaper accounts of the scandal, the government, the public.

The whole affair is tawdry, sleazy, immoral, and you can continue this thesaurus of synonymous adjectives on your own. But the pitch of the outcry is as ludicrous as the nature of it is insincere.

First, the same government, acting in the name of the same public and with the approval of most of the same newspapers, concocts a school curriculum designed to sexualise children from kindergarten onwards.

Elementary school teachers use cucumbers to illustrate the proper use of condoms, children are taught that sex with boys/girls/others is perfectly healthy and normal even before one’s teens, various techniques for making it more enjoyable are discussed and illustrated.

Little girls are encouraged to practise sartorial standards traditionally favoured by ladies of easy virtue, little boys are brainwashed to think it’s perfectly normal for them to want to become little girls. Unchaperoned children can visit any website where they watch things that can make even a grown man blush.

Pictures of naked bodies, intertwined or otherwise, are everywhere. The kind of publications that used to be wrapped in cellophane for newsagents to put on the highest shelf are now claiming pride of shelf-place.

By the time a child is 17 nothing is off-limits, few things have been left untried. And then a demigod (the status of any TV star) comes round, offering untold riches for a few selfies the teenager would happily shoot for free. Why not take the money? Neither his school nor (I’m guessing) his family has built any moral barriers in the way of such a transaction.

Thus any pervert, such as the unspecified BBC presenter, has perfectly primed hunting grounds for his exploits. And considering his employer, he has to be a man of the left who doesn’t set much store by traditional morality and probity.

His moral guidance has to come not from Exodus or St Matthew but from Ernest Hemingway: “If it feels good, it’s moral.” So fine, his tastes may be slightly eccentric. But he feels good, the model doesn’t mind, no one gets hurt. So what’s the problem?

I could easily answer that question, but not in a way that a typical BBC presenter can understand. However, whatever the real problem is, it won’t be solved by nailing that pervert to the wall. That doesn’t mean he should be spared: aesthetic balance demands that he be eviscerated, figuratively speaking.

I just wish we were spared hypocritical pronouncements, phony gasps and rolled eyes. We reap what we sow and we get what we should expect – what we deserve.  

There has been much brouhaha lately about banks closing the accounts of some customers. Each time that happens, there is much weeping and wailing and gnashing of teeth, with the wronged customers seeking – and invariably getting – public support for their plight.

The usual allegation is that banks are plugging into the cancel culture of woke modernity, ditching customers whose political views are out of synch with the majority opinion at the BBC and the Guardian.

Nothing would surprise me nowadays, and those poor victims may well be right. However, I suspect the real explanation is probably different.

I don’t think banks can be so selective as to deny custom to potential clients on purely political grounds. If they practised such an exclusion policy consistently, they wouldn’t stay afloat for long.

Assuming for the sake of argument that most board members at major banks have Tory leanings, could they afford to turn away leftish pop stars, footballers, mega-rich actors and indeed BBC presenters? They would be tossing aside millions in assets, something that the board would find hard to explain to the shareholders.

I have a hunch that one possible reason for closing an account is the suspicion that the money was acquired in dubious ways and may be used for dubious purposes. That gives rise to the concern that the potential blow to the bank’s reputation may negate any gain generated by the account.

For example, if a bank were gaining notoriety as a money laundry for the mob, it would be well-advised to get rid of the iffy accounts. I’m sure most bankers would agree, and not for any moral reasons either.

Their rationale would be based on dispassionate, hardnosed calculations, an activity at which British bankers excel. As an American friend, himself a banker, once told me, his British colleagues would “foreclose on their starving mothers if the bottom line demanded it”.

Two test cases have caught my eye, those involving Nigel Farage and ‘Countess’ Alexandra Tolstoy.

(I put her title in quotes because I consider it of limited validity. Russia never had primogeniture, meaning that all the children of, say, a count would also be counts even when their father was still alive. Thus, if a 70-year-old count had five children, and each of them were as fertile, one title would produce 31 counts within just three generations.)

When Coutts, England’s most exclusive bank, cancelled Nigel Farage’s account, he screamed bloody murder, and Mr Farage knows how to turn the volume up to its highest setting. He had been cancelled, he shouted, because of his uncompromising campaign for Brexit.

That doesn’t quite ring true. After all, 52 per cent of the British voted for Brexit, and many of them weren’t shy about expressing their views publicly. Some of my friends were UKIP members, and one even its leader for a spell. None of them has had his banking privileges withdrawn.

Coutts originally ascribed its decision to Mr Farage’s receiving some £500,000 in fees for his regular appearances on Russia Today, Putin’s propaganda channel. Farage and his representatives vigorously protested: that £500,000 represented his total income that year, with only £5,000 or so coming from RT. That’s all right then.

Yet numbers shouldn’t affect the principle: someone who steals £10 is as much of a thief as someone who steals £100. You might say that getting a fee from RT isn’t the same as theft, and I’d agree. It isn’t. It’s much worse.

Any appearance on a propaganda channel will serve the purposes of propaganda, for otherwise there would be no appearance. RT was using Farage as one of the syringes injecting its fascist poison into the West’s bloodstream.

Farage worked hard for his money even outside RT’s good offices. In 2014 he named Putin as the world leader he most admired.

While expressing token disapproval of the annexation of the Crimea, Farage declared it was really the EU’s fault. That pernicious organisation had “blood on its hands” for encouraging rebellion in the Ukraine. “If you poke the Russian bear with a stick he will respond,” was how Farage explained that prelude to the current war.

That was the official Kremlin line, with Farage and the leader he most admired singing it in unison. Since even then Putin didn’t bother to conceal his all-consuming hatred of the West, brandishing his nuclear shiv regularly, Farage was in effect an enemy agent – morally, if not quite legally.

I’m sure – and so probably is Coutts – that Farage still holds the same views, even if he is less vociferous in expressing them. That may legitimately make Coutts concerned that its client’s money partly came from a criminal setup and might conceivably be used to further its cause.

That strikes me as a good enough reason to reject Farage’s business, but the bank has since changed its tune. Mr Farage, it explained, falls under the threshold of £1 million in investible income every Coutts customer must have.

If I were him, I’d call their bluff by continuing to appear on RT until my account reached the required level. Scratch that: there isn’t enough money in the world to make me do Putin’s bidding. A few appearances on the BBC were bad enough, but I’d never stoop any lower.

The other test case involves Miss ‘Countess’ Tolstoy, whose account at NatWest has recently been closed. Her family is also in cahoots with Putin, which I had a chance of discovering first-hand a few years ago.

Miss Tolstoy’s brother kept pestering me with e-mailed diatribes each time I described Putin’s regime as the kleptofascist abomination it is. I’m sure he got his cue from his father, Nikolai, whose books on Second World War history I greatly respect.

That’s more than I can say for his person, certainly since the 1812 Ball I ill-advisedly attended years ago. That important event in London’s social calendar was organised by old Russian émigrés, most of whom, like Nikolai Tolstoy, were born and bred in Britain.

Presiding over the festivities, he announced with pride the presence of the Russian ambassador, “Our ambassador, ladies and gentlemen!” I demonstratively walked out, unable to contain the emetic reaction.

Later, his objectionable son accused me of treason: “If you don’t like your country, why don’t you go back and make it better” he demanded angrily. I could have explained to him that I left Russia long before he was born, don’t consider it my country (never did, actually) and, unlike the Tolstoys, don’t hold dual citizenship (I do, in fact, but the other one is US, not Russian).

However, realising that no such effort would have the slightest effect, I simple broke through my, admittedly thin, civilised veneer and told the idiot to perform a ballistically improbable act on himself.

Now his sister is in the news, and her links with Putin’s Russia are even more intimate. NatWest has declared her a PEP (politically exposed person), meaning a potential embarrassment.

For many years Miss Tolstoy lived with Sergei Pugachev, by whom she bore three children. Pugachev was widely described as an ‘oligarch’ and ‘Putin’s banker’, terms one could use interchangeably with ‘gangster’ and ‘money launderer’.

Her paramour was under investigation in Britain, but violated a court order by skipping the country in 2015. Miss Tolstoy claims she isn’t in contact with the fugitive and receives no support from him for herself and her children. I find that unlikely and, more important, evidently so does NatWest.

Miss Tolstoy demanded an explanation and received an unequivocal reply: “We’re not obliged to enter into any discussion or provide a reason for our decision. We’ve reviewed our rationale behind the decision and, unfortunately, this remains unchanged. We therefore won’t be meeting with you or discussing this further.”

Quite right too. A bank or any other business can refuse to serve anyone it chooses.

We expect banks to exercise that right selectively and rarely, and so they do. My contention is that in these two cases, they acted not only legally but also correctly. But I’m sure not everyone will agree.

What do you call a man who doesn’t believe in God? An atheist. And what do you call a priest who doesn’t believe in God, doesn’t understand basic theology, but upholds every woke fad going? The Archbishop of York.

One has to arrive at this melancholy conclusion every time the Most Rev Stephen Cottrell, the second most senior Anglican prelate, opens his mouth in public.

This time His Grace delivered himself on the Lord’s Prayer, whose wording he considers problematic. I’m sure the originator of that text must apply the same adjective to His Grace.

The eloquent way he explains the nature of the problem brings to mind the great preachers of the past, from St Paul onwards. The famous pagan orators, such as Demosthenes and Cicero, also rate a mention as worthy precursors. But judge for yourself:

“I know the word ‘father’ is problematic for those whose experience of earthly fathers has been destructive and abusive and for all of us who have laboured rather too much from an oppressively patriarchal grip on life — then those of us who say this prayer together, whether we like it or not, whether we acknowledge it or not, even if we determinedly face away from each other only turning round in order to put a knife in the back of the person standing behind us, are sisters and brothers, family members, the household of God.”

Let me see if I get this right. Even though we’d dearly love to stab one another (incidentally, that feat would be easier to accomplish on a person standing in front of us), we are all sisters and brothers, members of the same family in the household of God. Yet people are siblings by virtue of sharing two parents, or at least one. In every language I am familiar with, parents are identified as ‘father’ and ‘mother’.

So God has to be either one or the other, and his son seems to have settled the issue by referring to God as Father and telling believers to start their daily prayer with “Our Father, which art in heaven…”.

One would think that even in our gender-fluid times any priest has a professional obligation to accept Jesus Christ as something of an authority on such matters. Where is the problem then?

It’s true that many earthly fathers take a rather lackadaisical view of parental duties. And yes, their offspring may have unpleasant associations with the concept of fatherhood.

However, I’d suggest it’s the pastoral duty of any priest, never mind a prelate, to explain to Kevin what’s what. God the Father, Kev, shouldn’t be equated with your Dad, who shagged your Mum, did a runner, and turns up only every couple of years to shag your Mum again, nick her social cheque, and then use you and her in lieu of a football or a punching bag.

God the Father isn’t that kind of bloke. In fact, Kev, God isn’t a bloke at all – he is God. He is called Father because he created us all and guides us lovingly through life, the way your Dad doesn’t.

I wouldn’t take Kevin into the thicket of recondite theology, but the Archbishop should understand, and be able to explain, why the first hypostasis of the Holy Trinity is called Father. This is how I tried to do so in an earlier piece:

“Judaeo-Christian God made the world as a free act of absolute creation, that is out of nothing (ab nihilo).

“The human father imitates this act by initiating conception. Though both he and the woman are essential to it, the man, by impregnating the woman, is the active agent; the woman, by being impregnated, is the passive one.

“Thus, referring to God as ‘he’ is a sound metaphor. But it’s also a sound analogy, for a father embodies what theologians call the ‘principle’ of procreation.

“Because a man procreates outside his own body, he stands outside and above his creation in the sense in which a woman doesn’t. She conceives and gestates the child inside her body, and in that sense the child is a part of her, even though the man also contributes his DNA.

“Symbolically the couple imitates the act of divine creation. The man is both transcendent (standing outside and above his creation) and immanent (present within it). The woman, on the other hand, is only immanent.

“The reason theologians insist on referring, both metaphorically and analogously, to God as father is that his transcendence is a more important property than his immanence.”

Kevin’s feelings about his Dad don’t come into this at all – they belong in a totally different spiritual and physical realm. Kevin’s plight is awful, but a priest isn’t above all a social worker, and nor is Jesus Christ a Shadow Home Secretary.

However, there’s something Kevin may not know, but a priest should. Orphanages were among the first institutions created by the early Christians acting in the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit.

Such institutions, along with those for the care of the old and infirm, widows, lepers and cripples rapidly spread already during Constantine’s reign. In fact, the emperor Julian the Apostate, who had switched from Arian Christianity back to his beloved paganism, reluctantly praised the ‘Galileans’ for looking after the weak and needy, “not only theirs, but ours as well,” so much better than the pagans did.

The church was thus willing to provide not only spiritual solace for children like Kevin but also tangible support, shelter, food and education. That was an attempt to ensure that children who lost their fathers would never remain fatherless.

The ‘problem’ highlighted by His Grace is new to me. So new, in fact, that one begins to suspect many of today’s Anglicans are actively looking for ways of taking Christ out of Christianity. The older problem, that of God’s pronouns, hasn’t gone away though.

In fact, the Church of England is about to switch to ‘non-gendered’ pronouns in honour of a fad that’s not only secular but aggressively atheist. Thus, the Rev Christina Rees said the Archbishop “has put his finger on an issue that’s a really live issue for Christians and has been for many years”.

I’m sure that’s “a really live issue for Christians” like her, those whose mission in life seems to be vulgarising Christianity into extinction. I’ll refrain from enlarging on my view of female priesthood, other than saying I regard it as an abomination.

But whatever one’s views on clerical ladies may be, any person with a modicum of taste would abhor the way the Rev Christina bemoans that: “It’s the way it’s been set for so long and so we’re stuck. And because Jesus called God ‘Daddy’, we think we have to call God ‘Daddy’.”

Alas, I am incapable of reading the Scripture in its original languages, but in no translation I’ve ever seen does Jesus refer to God as ‘Daddy’, ‘Dad’, ‘Pop’, ‘Pa’ or any such familiar term. The Rev Christina obviously wants to kill two birds with one stone.

First, she is out to reconfirm her woke credentials by insisting on a ‘non-gendered’ God. Second, she is trying to imply her special intimacy with God, with whom she seems to be on more familiar terms than even Jesus was.

In fact, she succeeds only in parading her staggering ignorance, irreverence and – I’m sure – crypto-atheism. She is such a strong living argument against female priesthood that I consider the case closed.

His Grace, however, isn’t a woman. Hence he must be a strong living argument against something else — I’ll let you decide what.

No, I didn’t think so. But suppose you had, and the question in the title is put to you by the disembodied voice of a phone pollster.

Now, you know you’ve just dismembered your neighbour and dumped him piecemeal into rubbish skips. So how do you answer that question? Yes or no? You realise that if you say ‘yes’, the pollster will probably forget all about confidentiality, call the police, and you’ll be in for a long stretch at His Majesty’s pleasure.

Hence you suppress whatever impulse you might have to come clean and say something like “Of course, I haven’t. Who do you think I am?”

Does this hypothetical scenario make psychological sense? It does? Good. Now you understand where the 80 per cent support for Putin comes from in Russia.

Even the meekest opposition to the Special Military Operation (SMO, otherwise known as Russia’s aggressive war on the Ukraine) is punishable by draconian prison terms, never less than five years and sometimes as long as 25. Each time such a sentence is passed, all Russian media publicise the verdict widely and incessantly, pour encourager les autres.

Suddenly, out of the blue, the phone rings, and a Russian citizen living his life in fear of putting a foot wrong is asked to answer these four questions (the questionnaire is recent and real, not imaginary).

1. Do you support Vladimir Putin’s domestic and foreign policies?

2. Do you consider Putin’s decision to start the SMO to be correct?

3. Do you support the SMO?

4. Do you consider the negative information about the Russian army to be true?  

Suppose for the sake of argument that our respondent 1) detests Putin’s policies, foreign and domestic, 2) considers the decision to start the SMO to be criminal, 3) emphatically doesn’t support the SMO and 4) believes all negative information about the Russian army to be true.

How likely is he to respond in that vein? Knowing that he may well spend the rest of his life in prison? Oh, I’m sure some intrepid individuals still speak their mind – I remember doing so myself, in my Soviet youth. But such people were in the minority then, and they are in the minority now.

In fact, in my day that minority was smaller than it seems to be now: if statistics are to be believed, 20 per cent of the Russians reply ‘no’ to some such questions. Given the circumstances, that’s a respectable number.

Those people would rather risk their liberty than strike the Faustian deal with the devil. And their liberty isn’t the worst risk they take.

Putin’s fascist thugs are just as likely to dispense with the casuistic shenanigans of quasi-legal proceedings and settle political or business scores the old-fashioned way: with guns, crowbars, poison or a simple push out of the window.

Dozens of journalists and opposition politicians have suffered that fate in recent months. And the number of top Russian businessmen falling out of windows makes one wonder about the structural safety of Russian residential architecture.

Just a few days ago, Kristina Baikova, vice president of a major bank, plunged to her death from her flat window in Moscow – and she is far from the only one. There is a veritable epidemic of defenestration afflicting Russian executives, especially in the oil industry and banking, practically the only money-making parts of the Russian economy.

‘Unexplained’ deaths of healthy, vigorous executives in their 30s and 40s are also rife. These are typically described as suicide, with those upwardly mobile youngsters either poisoning themselves with exotic compounds or beating themselves to death with aforementioned crowbars.

The political situation inside Russia can only be properly understood in the right context: that of fascist Italy or Nazi Germany. And Russia’s business climate evokes fond recollections of Chicago during Prohibition.

Hannah Arendt’s phrase, the banality of evil, was meant to describe the Nazi Holocaust. However, it deserves a wider application. In Putin’s Russia, evil has become the norm, part of the daily routine that is as likely to cause ennui as outrage.

People used to think of evil acts as one-off incidents and even try to find rational explanations for them.

Razing the capital of Chechnya, Grozny, whose population was 80 per cent Russian? Oh well, there’s a war on. Things happen, even very nasty things.

Attack on Georgia? That’s unpleasant, but those Georgians must have asked for it.

Journalists murdered by the dozen? Shame, that. But perhaps they weren’t murdered after all, or else the guilty parties were jealous spouses or jilted lovers (the FSB put forth this last explanation when Paul Klebnikov, the American editor of the Russian Forbes, was machinegunned by two people in the centre of Moscow – jealous husbands tool up well in Russia, and they bring friends along).

However, as such crimes multiplied, the people’s nerve endings began to atrophy. The self-preservation instinct kicked in, and personal survival became the order of the day. Along with the hope that the outer limit of evil has already been reached.

Yes, Putin grabbed the Crimea. But surely he won’t move into mainland Ukraine. Oh, he has, hasn’t he? At least he won’t bomb civilians in their houses, hospitals and schools. Well, never mind that. Surely he won’t blow up the Kakhovka dam? That would destroy one of the best agricultural areas in Europe, not to mention the ensuing ecological disaster. He did? You don’t say. But that’s it – he won’t blow up the nuclear power station at Zaporozhe. That would be ten times worse than Chernobyl… but then the radiation wouldn’t reach me.

At least we still have enough food, and nobody has bombed our apartment block. People getting murdered and imprisoned for no good reason? Perhaps. But as long as I keep my head down, I’ll be all right…

And then the phone rings. A man with a velvety voice wonders if you wouldn’t mind answering a few yes or no questions…

This article is a reply to a reader’s question, and it’s a good question indeed: “Why do you not consider conservatism to be an ideology?”

Yesterday I defined an ideology as a “politically aggressive secular creed springing from a corrupt, or corrupted, idea.” None of these features applies to conservatism, which I’ll try to show by looking at them one by one.

Conservatism isn’t always, and never merely, political. Political views may be part of a conservative outlook on life, but they never define it.

A conservative may have no interest in politics at all. In fact, I know quite a few conservatives who wince with disdain whenever politics comes up in conversation.

Conservatism is a character or temperament trait, one that predisposes a man to favour certain ideas, including political ones, over others. In extreme cases, a man’s character may even lead him to develop a philosophy of life.

But conservatives don’t have to be philosophers; few are. However, when exposed to various philosophies, all of them intuitively accept conservative ones and reject others.

The same character traits prevent a conservative from being aggressive in asserting his views. Show me a man ranting from a soapbox, and I’ll show you the opposite of a conservative – this irrespective of his pet subject. Moderation and good manners are more important to a conservative than self-assertion.

Neither can a conservative be ideologically secular. That doesn’t mean a conservative necessarily has to be a believer, although many are. What no conservative can ever be is an atheist, someone who vigorously denies God.

That would be tantamount to dismissing in one fell swoop not just Christianity, but our whole civilisation with its history, morality, aesthetics, culture, law – even political heritage. By definition, conservatives are out to conserve, not repudiate, our civilisation.

Hence a conservative may be an agnostic, but never an atheist. Though a conservative agnostic is denied the gift of faith, something he may or may not rue, he acknowledges our civilisational debt to Christianity and hence refrains from holding extreme views about it.

Another aspect of conservatism is that it isn’t a creed. It may be an intricately interlaced system of many creeds, but never a single one. Hence, unlike just about any ideology, conservatism can’t be defined with a slogan.

That puts it at a political disadvantage when it comes to rallying the masses by rabble rousing. As any adman will tell you, the masses don’t respond to complex, nuanced ideas. Give them liberté, égalité, fraternité, and they’ll jump up and salute. Try to explain to them that liberté and égalité are mutually exclusive, and their eyes will glaze over.

Even as conservatism isn’t based on a single belief, neither can it be reduced to a single idea. It’s more a matter of temperamental and intellectual predisposition that may or may not be encapsulated in specific ideas.

So far I have proceeded apophatically, by arguing what things conservatism is not. All those things can be described with one word: ideology. Having thus defined conservatism negatively, let’s try to define it positively by showing not what it isn’t but what it is.

Here it’s difficult to look beyond Edmund Burke, whose seminal book Reflections on the Revolution in France should (though never will) be required reading at every school.

The great Whig, who towards the end of his life abandoned Whiggery, reduced the complexity of the conservative temperament to one dominant feature: prudence, caution in advocating novelties.

Burke specifically talked about political prudence, not acting emotionally on the spur of the moment, thinking a thousand times before introducing one irreversible change. That doesn’t mean resistance to change as such. In fact, Burke wrote that: “A state without the means of some change is without the means of its conservation.”

Some change is thus both inevitable and desirable. But what are the guiding principles of introducing it?

In answering that question, Burke came as close as it’s possible to get to identifying the key beacons lighting up the conservative mind: prejudice, which is intuitive knowledge; prescription, which is truth passed on by previous generations; and presumption, which is inference from the common experience of mankind.

Burkean four Ps, Prudence, Prejudice, Prescription and Presumption, obviate the need for the other 25 letters to describe the conservative mind. Those four Ps manifestly have nothing to do with any ideology, in my definition or anyone else’s.

They can, however, act as the building blocks of ideas, including political ones. However, a political idea thus constructed mustn’t be allowed to degenerate into an ideology. If it does, it loses its conservative underpinnings to become something else, such as, say, libertarianism or even anarchism.

This can be illustrated by any number of examples. Free markets versus nationalised ones is an obvious one, closely related as it is to the issue of small versus big government.

Like everything else in our civilisation, this dichotomy can be traced back to a Christian idea, in this case that of individual responsibility for one’s own destiny. The notion of personal integrity and autonomy precludes meek submission to secular authority in matters beyond its just reach.

The same applies to the complex interaction between the state and the individual. The Christian believes his life is eternal. He also knows from history books that the life of a state is not: even extremely successful ones only ever lasted between 1,000 and 1,500 years.

Compared to eternity, this stretch seems tinier than a speck of dust would appear next to the universe. The individual will therefore perceive himself as more significant than the state and for that reason alone will never accept its tyranny.

Etched into a Christian’s soul is the innate conviction that he is transcendent but the state is transient. Hence in everything that matters he can only regard the state not as his master but as his servant.

If the state’s actions suggest that it is assuming the role of master, then the believer may either resist it or pretend to be going along to protect himself from persecution. But inwardly he will never acquiesce. 

Against that civilisational background, a conservative, even if he himself is an agnostic, will be a champion of free, as opposed to nationalised, markets.

First, he will know from empirical evidence that free markets make more people less poor. And the four Ps I mentioned earlier demand attaching a great value to empirical experience accumulated over history.

Second, and more important, a conservative also knows that nationalised markets make the central state so strong that it will inevitably start encroaching on areas beyond its natural remit, laying claims on individual integrity traditionally held sacrosanct.

That is an impeccably conservative attitude, one based on an idea, not an ideology. Yet when thinkers who aren’t themselves natural, intuitive conservatives get hold of that idea, they can drag it into the quagmire of ideology.

I’ve met many people who call themselves conservatives but who are, in fact, what I call ‘totalitarian economists’. They converge with Marxists in preaching the primacy of economics, the be all and end all of public virtue.

Nationalise the means of production, insist Marxists, and everything else will follow, universal bliss will arrive. Free up the markets, insist totalitarian economists, and everything else will follow, universal bliss will arrive. Like Orwell’s animals, both species reduce everything to a single issue. They just can’t agree on the number of legs.

That’s why I never regard ‘totalitarian economists’ like Mises, Hayek and Friedman – or especially their less brilliant followers – as fellow conservatives. They teeter on the verge beyond which an idea ends and an ideology begins. No room for conservatism there.

There we go, the surface of the non-ideological nature of conservatism thoroughly scratched. Delving deeper would require a different format, that of a weighty tome. Still, I must apologise to my reader by paraphrasing Mark Twain: “Sorry about such a long response – I didn’t have time to write a short one.”

P.S. For even a longer response, you may want to look up some of my books in which I talk about such subjects at greater, but still manageable, length, especially How the West Was Lost, The Crisis Behind Our Crisis and Democracy as a Neocon Trick.

My contention is that this is impossible. If it’s good, it’s not an ideology. And if it’s an ideology, it’s not good.

This is one of my recurrent themes, but what has made it recur today is an interview with some Tory health official I watched for a few minutes this morning.

Presenter Kay Burley queried the woman, whose name I didn’t catch, on the dire state of the NHS. Don’t we need fundamental changes? Of course, we do, agreed the woman, and you can count on the government to introduce them. She then took in Burley’s steely look and open mouth, and expertly pre-empted the inevitable question cum accusation.

Whatever we do, she hastened to reassure urbi et orbi, we remain staunchly committed to the sacred principle of ‘free at the point of delivery’. Yes, she admitted mournfully, people do pay for the NHS through their taxes, and they pay a lot. But while she has any breath left in her body, that will remain the only method of payment.

Considering that the woman herself looked in dire need of the services within her remit, the commitment didn’t look eternal, but she certainly meant it that way. Why?

Here comes the first litmus test to distinguish an ideology from its cognates, ‘idea’ and ‘ideal’.

‘Everyone must have equal access to medical care’ is an ideal. ‘Everyone should have equal access to medical care equal in every respect’ is an ideology. ‘Medical care must be free at the point of delivery’ is an ideology too. But it’s based on an idea: ‘a fully nationalised medical care is the best way of providing it.’

This is definitely an idea, but a wrong one. When I lived in that land of greedy, money-grubbing medics, the US, medical care, which I needed lamentably often, never cost me anywhere near the 12 per cent or so of my income the Exchequer extorts for that purpose.

Since the medical care provided by the NHS is grossly inadequate, in addition I have to pay exorbitant premiums for private medical insurance. It’s hard to escape the conclusion that perhaps full nationalisation isn’t the best way to keep Britons healthy.

Moreover, if Britons were asked whether they’d rather pay 12 per cent (or in my case considerably more) of their income for ‘free’ medical care or, say, half that proportion for the kind that isn’t free, I suspect most would choose the latter. But the question is never put to them.

I know this, the interviewee knows it, even conceivably Kay Burley knows it, although the impression she unfailingly conveys is that she knows nothing about anything. But the two ladies are constitutionally incapable of treating the NHS as just one of many ways to finance medical care.

Yet that’s exactly what it is, nothing less, and certainly nothing more. Hence it must be dispassionately weighed against other methods and found either superior or inferior. If it’s found to be inferior – and it’s worth noting that most other European countries refuse to have a fully nationalised health service – then it should be abandoned and replaced with something that works better.

That’s how we know that the NHS isn’t an idea but an ideology. It’s impervious to rational arguments and held to be off limits for any kind of comparative judgement.

The late Chancellor Nigel Lawson correctly defined the NHS as “the closest thing the English people have to a religion.” And a religion without God is what any ideology really is – and has been since the term first appeared.

It was coined in 1796 by the French Enlightenment thinker Antoine Destutt de Tracy. The reason no one had thought of the word earlier is simple: there had been no need for it.

New words appear to designate new concepts or phenomena. In this case, the phenomenon was a mass revolt against Western civilisation, otherwise known as Christendom. The concept was replacing God with secular virtue based on academic abstractions contrived by people like Tracy.

So it has remained to this day. Tracy defined ideology as a ‘science of ideas’, but the more accurate definition would be a ‘politically aggressive secular creed springing from a corrupt, or corrupted, idea.’

Most ideologies do start with an idea, and some ideas may not be so bad. Ending racial discrimination, for example, is a damn good idea. That being so, any decent person should welcome any sensible steps towards putting it into practice.

But when that idea acquires aspects of a politically aggressive cult, it stops being an idea and effectively loses all links, other than etymological ones, with that word. It becomes an ideology that isn’t subject to correction by reason or fact. Unlike an idea, an ideology cauterises people’s minds – at least the parts dealing with such issues.

Most people’s minds aren’t so easy to invalidate. Hence another hallmark of an ideology: it gains public acceptance not by its intrinsic truth, nor by rational persuasion, but by a massive brainwashing effort. That’s what it takes for otherwise (moderately) intelligent people to accept, say, the critical race theory as a valid representation of history.

My examples show two ideologies that became what they are by systematically corrupting originally good ideas: that all sick people should be treated, and that no race should be singled out for persecution.

Most ideologies, however, aren’t like that. They start out as corrupt and then reach out-and-out evil by a succession of incremental steps. Communism, Nazism and fascism spring to mind, with all their numerous offshoots.

These are considerably more carnivorous than the NHS or the critical race theory, which may make some people overlook the similarity among all ideologies, a crossroads where they all come together.

Whatever their declared aims, all ideologies are driven by hatred, the urge to repudiate the core founding tenets and practices of our civilisation. This is the overarching umbrella covering them all, sanguinary or seemingly pacific, those that scowl at you with bared fangs or greet you with a beatific smile.

That’s why a good ideology is a glaring oxymoron. Sort of like free medical care.  

Three items have caught my eye, each supporting the melancholy conclusion in the title. This, though in two of the cases a TV presenter was supposedly making an argument for the sane side.

One such presenter was Piers Morgan, interviewing a fellow journalist. His guest spends much of his time in France, where his dog Bella runs free among the vines. That puts her in danger, but mercifully an Austrian company provides a dog tracking service. The device attached to the collar lets the owner know where his pet is at all times, which is a good idea.

However, to paraphrase a well-known expression, no good idea goes unpunished. In this case, the punishment came as the Austrian company’s demand that all its tracking devices exhibit the rainbow badge of the on-going Gay Pride Month. Virtue-barking was supposed to augment virtue-signalling.

Morgan’s friend refused, and as a result the company cancelled his dog, or rather his subscription to the tracker. If you are a troglodyte homophobe, was the implicit message, may your dog croak, see if we care.

The owner protested, and miraculously the company relented. It ascribed the confrontation to an overzealous employee, reinstated the tracker and even gave the owner three months free by way of compensation. In his letter the company’s president explained that, much as he disagreed with the owner’s views, he wasn’t going to punish him for holding them.

A victory for sanity? Not so fast.

Discussing the event, Morgan and his friend proved that nowadays every such victory is illusory. It’s just another word for defeat.

Both Morgan and his guest did their utmost to reassure their audience that there isn’t even a particle of homophobia in their bodies. Some of their best friends are homosexuals and all that. And it went without saying that they loved and supported the idea of Gay Pride.

Their only objection was that it takes a whole month to celebrate such hubris. After all, we have only one day to glorify our veterans and just a handful to hail Jesus. Wouldn’t it be better to put Gay Pride somewhere between the two? Why give it a whole month?

The two also objected to being forced to display those rainbows. Nothing wrong with the symbol, but let us decide when and how to show it. Both agreed that demanding canine devotion to the rainbow-clad alphabet was ill-advised.

That’s it, argument lost. Because Morgan and his friend conceded the fundamentally perverse premise, while then arguing against its ineluctable consequences. That’s like giving a man dying from brain cancer a couple of aspirins for his headache.

I don’t know what either of them really thinks about this whole mess. Nor do I care because what they really think is irrelevant. The only thing that matters is that, even if they thought, as I do, that copulating with a person of the same sex is nothing to be proud about, they would never be able to say so.

As I keep arguing, the underlying orthodoxy is already chiselled in stone, and no one can chip away at it without risking his job, status and in some cases even liberty. That again brings back the hideous memories of the Soviet Union, where it was only possible to criticise little excesses at the lowest rungs of the Party hierarchy – never the premise for the existence of that hierarchy.

Whenever I point out the similarities between the Soviet Union and today’s West, people counter by citing the differences. However, while rejoicing in the latter, we should still bemoan the growing number of the former. Not only does today’s West resemble the USSR in many respects, but the gap between them is getting smaller by the day.

The second case again involves Sky Breakfast News, which I watch for some 10 minutes over my first cup of coffee. That’s usually enough time to vindicate the title above.

This morning, presenter Kay Burley was interviewing the chieftain of Just Stop Oil, the subversive movement whose members disrupt traffic and sporting events. Their chosen weapon against the latter is orange paint that they spray all over everyone and everything within range.

Cesare Lombroso would have had a field day with Burley’s guest. He looked every bit the fanatic he is, his eyes glaring in a way that would make me cross over to the other side of the street if I saw him coming. As my professor friend used to say back at university, “When you see a madman, step aside.”

Again, Burley repeated Morgan’s cowardly (or else stupid) stratagem of taking issue with the zealots’ methods, while endorsing their principal premise. “Scientists agree that we are in the midst of a climate crisis,” ranted the fanatic. “No one is disputing that, but…,” objected Burley.

That was another orthodoxy on show. “Roma locuta; causa finita est,” as Augustine once said. Rome has spoken; the case is closed. Except that in this instance, the speaker isn’t an almighty empire, but the rancid, malodorous zeitgeist emanating from the vociferous woke minority given the power to put its foot down.

It would be pointless to suggest even to the marginally sane Burley, and certainly to her rabid guest, that scientists don’t really agree. Some write extremely well argued and extensively documented books against that fraudulent claim, and I could recommend a small library of such tomes.

Yet they would remain unread and unmentioned. Orthodoxy locuta, and, as GULAG guards used to say to marching prisoners, “Any step aside will be treated as an escape attempt. We’ll shoot without warning.”

The two cases I’ve mentioned show that the only possible outcome of any meekly abject resistance to insanity is putting an added emphasis to its resounding victory. Perhaps realising that, the Bank of England decided to go the whole hog and surrender unconditionally without even pretending to put up a defence.

That venerable institution agreed that people of any ‘gender identity’ can become pregnant. And should any employee feel the need for gender reassignment treatment, the Bank will pay for it using private medical insurance.

Its memorandum on ‘family leave policy’ uses the phrase “birthing parent”, neglecting the rather long tradition of calling such a parent ‘mother’. To clear up any possible confusion, the Bank explains that the term means “the parent who is/was pregnant with the child but includes persons of any and all gender identities.”

The Bank also reiterated its commitment to gender-neutral lavatories, a shift to which is described as an “upgrade”. At the same time, the Bank’s 4,000 UK employees have been drafted into the service of insanity.

Each of them will be given a “diversity and inclusion objective” for every year, at the end of which their performance will be assessed on that criterion. They are also encouraged, though not yet ordered, to wear a rainbow lanyard and display the symbol at their workstation.

It’s good to see that, at a time of interest rates going up and inflation refusing to go down, our central bank never loses sight of what really matters in life. High principle comes before petty pecuniary concerns, and isn’t that laudable?

Piers Morgan and his dog-loving friend wondered why Pride activists defend their noble cause by such ignoble methods. Why can’t they be happy celebrating their well-merited pride for the same number of days as the calendar assigns to Jesus?

I’ll be happy to answer this question. They do those things for the same reason Bella licks her genitals: because they can. And, as their fellow subversive Lenin taught, if they can, they must.

Their objective isn’t to assert the right of homosexuals proudly to parade perverse practices, but to take away the majority’s right to resist.

All modern perversions, and not necessarily sexual ones, are inherently aggressive. Their aim is to smash traditional society to smithereens and reassemble its fragments under the rainbow (red, green) flag of victorious insanity.

If they are the lunatics, we are the asylum. And you know who is in charge.  

In a slight deviation from its ‘all-white’ rule, Wimbledon has allowed female players to wear coloured shorts under their skirts.

Even a traditionalist like me doesn’t mind. A little spot of colour doesn’t offend my sensibilities in any way.

That, however, doesn’t mean my sensibilities are impervious to offences of any kind. Gross affronts to taste and propriety still make me wince, as does vulgarity of any kind.

(To pre-empt my friends’ sneering and invoking teapots and kettles: I don’t necessarily consider swearing to be vulgar. It only becomes that when used in wrong places and at wrong times.)

And when Sky presenter Anna Jones and sports reporter Jacquie Beltrao discussed that Wimbledon innovation this morning, my sensibilities took a savage beating.

The ladies explained, in that chatty yet serious way TV hacks always assume whether or not it’s appropriate, that Wimbledon officials weren’t driven by aesthetic considerations. Nor was it a conscious decision to modernise the old fuddy-duddy codes.

The problem was that white knickers can get visibly stained when a woman player has her period. Apparently, tampons don’t always provide a perfect seal and some unfortunate leakage can occur. (Ideally, I’d suggest a girl should make gravity work for her by playing on her head, but that way she wouldn’t get to the ball fast enough.)

The victim of that malfunction would then have to rush to the lavatory, but the number of times a player can do so during a best-of-three match is limited to one. Should a different need arise later, the woman would have to grin and bear it – or else do a Paula Radcliffe (I’ll spare you the details).

Now those who know me well will confirm that my standards of what is and what isn’t fit for public airing aren’t unduly stringent. But at that point I winced: Jones and Beltrao were really telling me more than I wanted to know.

Yet they didn’t stop there. What followed was a series of interviews with some top players who all hailed the code change. One after another, in the same matter-of-fact tone they’d use to discuss their warm-up techniques, they were saying things like: “I had my period during last year’s Wimbledon, and it was [“embarrassing”, “uncomfortable”, “cramping my style”, take your pick].

As far back as 1965 Kenneth Tynan became the first to say “fuck’ on British TV. That widened the boundaries of the allowable in one fell swoop, and they have been pushed further apart since then.

However, it may be only me, but I don’t mind hearing obscenities as much as I mind graphic, technical discussions of matters gynaecological, physiological, excremental, urinary, prostatic and so forth. I could just about tolerate them when they come from a doctor offering public-service advice, though even that could be delivered more discreetly through less public media.

But when TV presenters evoke vivid images of tennis players leaving blood trails on the Wimbledon grass, I see that as gratuitous vulgarity, a forehand slap in the face of decency and propriety. What makes it even worse, especially in the British context, is that such logorrhoea is part of a general trend.

Britons, especially middle-class ones or higher, have traditionally been known for their reserve and reticence. In my wife’s family, for example, certain subjects always were off limits even among adults, never mind children.

Even now Penelope, who has lived her life in the blasé circles of musicians, artists and writers, won’t allow one of the latter, namely me, to broach some topics, especially in a language she never heard from her parents.

She succeeds at home, but outside she is spitting against the wind (it has taken Penelope years to make me say ‘spitting’ in that expression). Britons have been brainwashed to think that reticence is a sign of a psychological disorder.

One can only validate one’s mental health by letting it all hang out, sometimes literally. Nothing is off limits, there are no tabooisms left. It’s grown-up and healthy to talk openly and publicly about our sex lives, excretions, VDs, private and intimate matters. Actually, there are no private and intimate matters left – everything has been shifted into the public domain.

It’s fashionable these days to blame all our social ills on Americans, but in this case there is some justification for it. However, Americans have had much experience in that sort of thing, and it comes naturally to them.

I found such openness quite irritating even when I lived there but, you know, when in Rome… and all that.  But when Britons begin to walk and talk like Americans, they sound strained and generally pathetic.

A message to Sky presenters: next time you talk about Wimbledon, stick to backhands and volleys or, if such is your wont, strawberries and cream. Leave menstruation to gynaecologists or perhaps the players’ parents. Talking about it on camera is grating, cringe-making – and vulgar in a particularly un-British way.

One has to applaud Manny Macron for getting his priorities right. He puts culture above the little problems of life, which strikes a chord in my heart.

As riots spread to the centre of Paris, with shops torched (and presumably looted) in the elegant rue de Rivoli, Manny was last night partying with Elton John after the latter’s farewell concert.

As far as one can judge from the photographs, the party was à quatre: Manny, his foster mother Brigitte, Elton and his ‘husband’. (The moment I put quotation marks around that last word, I realised I could be arrested for such punctuation – but decided it was a chance worth taking.)

The venue for the festivities was located in Bercy, not exactly the most salubrious part of Paris, and hence a likely arena for riotous self-expression. Yet I’m sure Manny was protected well enough for his cultural quest to proceed unimpeded.

Thus safeguarded, he pinned a Légion d’honneur ribbon on Elton John’s shell suit, and I’m sure that wasn’t the first time a hideous, talentless creature received such an accolade. But I shouldn’t impose my aesthetic tastes on you – let’s stick to the rioting.

As Manny hobnobbed with Elton, the police all over France were battling frenzied mobs, with both sides taking casualties. So far over 650 arrests have been made, and an unspecified number of policemen injured.

The rioting proceeds under the slogan of ‘Vengeance for Nahel’, the 17-year-old Muslim shot dead by a policeman when refusing to stop his Mercedes AMG as ordered. That gave rise to the conflagration and to the silly pun popping into my head: ex nihilo Nahel fit.

The usual phrasing of rioting slogans highlights justice, rather than vengeance, and the difference is telling. Justice can be served by trying the trigger-happy cop and, if he is found guilty, putting him in prison for a long spell. He has already been charged with voluntary manslaughter, which is a logical step in that direction.

Vengeance is something else. Unlike justice, it’s open-ended. If justice can be denominated in so many years of imprisonment, it’s impossible to say how many torched cars, burned buildings, barricaded thoroughfares and trashed shops it will take for vengeance to be deemed adequate. Basically, it’s whether or not the rioters run out of steam before the police run out of tear gas.

Remarkably little has been reported about the victim, other than his name, age, the car he was driving to deliver pizzas, and his mixed Algerian-Moroccan origin that doesn’t sound all that mixed to me. The French papers mentioned in passing that Nahel “was known to the police”, which vindicated my wild guess: most Mercedes-driving youngsters who refuse to obey police orders must have a reason for being so stubborn.

Could it be that Nahel had borrowed the car without the previous owner’s permission? All we can do is guess.

Now Manny has reconfirmed his commitment to culture, even at its lowest, I wonder how he assesses the progress of France’s commitment to diversity. An outside observer like me may get the impression that French multi-culturalism is no more successful than ours. Race riots certainly are a more regular feature of French life than British.

We could discuss the face value of multi-culti diversity till the social workers come home, but that would be a wasted effort. As with most distinctly modern practices, face value doesn’t even come into it. What matters is subtext not text, connotation not denotation, ideology not ideas.

French civil servants tend to be clever and well-educated, at least they were back in the 1960s, when the massive influx of North Africans started. Hence I doubt France’s interior ministers and their staffs were confident in their ability to integrate millions of Muslims seamlessly into a residually Christian and predominantly secular society.

Educated at France’s elite grandes écoles, the mandarins and other fruits knew some groups can adapt to a new culture better than others, and some can’t adapt at all. The issue is indeed cultural rather than racial, as Britain illustrates. For example, immigrants from Trinidad or Barbados adapt well, whereas those from the adjacent Jamaica don’t.

Some Muslims can fit into Western societies as easily as some Westerners can feel at home in Arabia (remember Lawrence?). But ‘some’ is the operative word. It’s unrealistic to expect millions of Muslims to feel they belong in a culture they find alien and detestable.

It was entirely predictable, and I’m sure French officials did predict, that those huddled masses would end up settling in vast ghettos along the periphery of major cities, with social security cheques being the only part of Western culture they’d appreciate. Proportionally, they’d boost welfare rolls and crime statistics more than they’d swell the labour force.

Had public officials in the West been motivated by the hardnosed weighing of the rational pros and cons, Muslim immigration would have been tightly controlled and severely limited. But the underlying motivation of the officialdom was different. They were ideologically committed to signalling their multi-culti virtue, and bono publico be damned.

Now those alien chickens are coming home to roost, and there is no end in sight. France has thrown 40,000 policemen into battle (twice as many fighters as the Wagner Group has altogther) and so far they are acquitting themselves reasonably well. But the future can’t be too remote when the balance of power will swing away from the police, when rioters will be able to overrun them. God save us all when that happens – and not just in France.

However, I am happy to report that, though the drive towards diversity isn’t unfolding without a snag or two, the idea of European homogeneity is thriving. Similar riots have broken out in Belgium, specifically Brussels, whose Muslim suburbs are also engulfed in flames.

The rioters there emulate their French brethren by torching cars, using fireworks as weapons and battling with the police. But they’ve added a few nice sartorial touches by wearing hoodies and masks, which doubtless adds to the gaiety of the nation.

Police forces all over Europe are on alert, expecting impassioned displays of supranational solidarity throughout the EU, certainly its high-rent part. It’s good to see that European federalism works even if multi-cultural diversity doesn’t, not quite.

And it’s especially rewarding to see that the president of France knows what really matters in life: culture comes before social tranquillity. In fact, some of history’s greatest artistic achievements have been known to coincide with the greatest unrest.

The on-going riots don’t quite make it to the greatest unrest yet. But then Elton John’s outpourings don’t quite make it to the greatest artistic achievements – indeed to art at all.