Quality | 2009.11.18
Hugh Muir's diary
standfirst
One problem with being a goat – as in government of all talents, the less than flattering name given to non-politicians drafted into Gordon\'s administration – is that they tend to get the dirty jobs. Lord Sugar , only recently tethered, is already questioning aloud whether the whole thing is worth it. He might walk away. So we should applaud Lord West of Spithead for staying power, but perhaps that is just what one would expect from a former admiral of the fleet. The tasks appear to suit him, but the home office minister did seem to draw the short straw this week when he had to tell the Lords just what ministers – after much reflection – have decided to do about lapdancing. The definition in the crime and policing bill defines a lapdancing club as a "sexual encounter venue". But that, said several peers, carried a stigma that might have prevented the ladies concerned from moving on to other, more socially respectable kinds of dancing, sans pole etc. Henceforth, Lord West informed them, such clubs will instead be defined as "sexual entertainment" venues. A small change perhaps, but one that for the aspiring lapdancer opens all sorts of possibilities. The government is for equality of opportunity. Harriet Harman will be delighted.
So here we are. At the 11th hour of the 11th day of the 11th month we remember the efforts and sacrifices of those who fought Nazi extremism. And this year we appear to be doing so with wreaths already laid at the main site of today\'s ceremony, the Cenotaph, by the National Front ex-servicemen and the Young National Front. Put that together with Nick Griffin on Question Time and intolerance is having quite a year.
Certainly there is no sign yet of scoundrels getting their comeuppance. Already financial types are preparing for next year\'s summit at which they will discuss good corporate governance. And where\'s it being held? Zimbabwe.
A new contemporary proverb now and one less violent than those that have gone before, with all that talk of shooting folk and pushing them down stairs. And yet this too seems fatalistic. "Accidents prefer the uninsured," reader Marcia Wheeler tells us. Granted, it seems like that some days, but chin up.
Chin up, Gordon. All this stuff about your handwriting is cruel and unusual punishment. It will pass. That said, it tells us sad things about your situation. You, having taken the time to write a letter, albeit flawed, to a grieving mother, are taking fire. By contrast Vladimir Putin is so popular that some bright spark is hoping to make a fortune on eBay by selling the Russian prime minister\'s pencil. "Looks like new, just might need a little sharpening," says the seller. And what did Putin write with it? Could anyone read it? No one knows. No one cares.
Finally, though the French countryside seems alluring as an emigration destination for Tracey Emin, troubled as she is by the horrors of Gordon\'s Britain and the prospect of 50% tax, she is still here. With that in mind, someone has clearly decided to make a little mischief. Seasonal Good Wishes from Tracey Emin, is the headline on a communication that has recently been pushed through letterboxes around her property in east London. "You\'re all so wonderful and I feel really blessed to be loved and cherished by the community. I might be a famous Turner prize artist with a national collection of modern British art at the Tate, but you know, at heart, I\'m just your neighbour Tracey." She has been good for them, the letter says, and if the "little people" at the town hall will let her, she will do even more by building a communal swimming pool. "Without wishing to blow my own trumpet, we all know the effect my presence has had. Estate agents talk of the \'Emin effect\'." But for all the kind words, it\'s a cruel deception. She didn\'t write the letter. She isn\'t building them a swimming pool. This sort of tomfoolery just wouldn\'t happen in France.
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