sábado, 2 de maio de 2026

The Spectator - The British should have their holy places

 



(personal underlines, silent ...)

The British should have their holy places

I think by now most of us can spot a double standard when we see one. So let me try two out on you. In what situation is it acceptable to denounce an MP or parliamentary candidate as ‘not very British’ or even someone who ‘doesn’t get our values, our culture, or our history’. When it is said by a Reform candidate about an MP from an ethnic minority? Or when Jeevun Sandher MP says it about Matt Goodwin, the Reform party candidate for Gorton and Denton?

Doubtless you have already guessed the correct answer. The above phrase was used this week by Labour’s Sandher to denounce Goodwin, and as a result it has passed without any serious comment. By contrast, if Goodwin had described Sandher in similar terms I think we can all agree that the news cycle would have stopped (even Jeffrey Epstein would have fallen off the front pages) and Labour MPs would be gearing up to talk about Enoch Powell again.

Allow me to try one more double standard on you. In what situation is it acceptable to say that an area of Britain is ‘too black’? Would it be acceptable to say it about a town anywhere in England? Or would it be acceptable to go to a country in Africa and return saying that, all things considered, the place needs rather more white people if it is going to be an acceptable, indeed desirable, destination?

The answer to that is once again, obviously not. However, as we have learned this week, it is perfectly acceptable to denounce places – on this occasion the English countryside – for being ‘too white’.

At this point, long-suffering readers might be suffering a sense of déjà-vu, as in fact I am myself. Three years ago I noted that no less an expert than a presenter from the BBC’s Countryfile had denounced the countryside for its ‘lingering, ambient racism’. The Corporation ran a piece suggesting that there weren’t enough Muslim hiking groups in the Peak District.

This time the charge comes from a more formal source. Specifically the Department for Environment, Food & Rural Affairs (Defra), reports for which have concluded that the countryside is too much of a ‘white environment’, principally enjoyed by the ‘white middle class’. Defra has come to the conclusion that our countryside risks becoming ‘irrelevant’ in a multicultural society.

Before proceeding, let us note something about that word ‘irrelevant’. Is nature meant to be relevant? Are fields and hedgerows and mountains and lakes meant to be things which change and adapt to the zeitgeist?

I’d have thought not. Claiming that the countryside must somehow adapt in order to remain relevant would seem to be a rather striking category error, actually. If you want to see a changing environment, there are any number of places you can go in this country. If you want something unchanging, steadfast and even eternal, I’d have thought the countryside is your best bet. It is one reason why some of us prefer the stuff over, say, Milton Keynes.

In any case, Defra has decided that every effort must be made to make our countryside less of a ‘white environment’. A campaigner called Ken Hinds invited on to GB News very much agreed. According to Mr Hinds, the countryside has been ‘white for far too long’. Asked why it should be so desirable to make more ethnic minorities move to the countryside, he trotted out the usual cliché: ‘We can -benefit from having people from a variety of cultures living among us.’

It’s possible we can. But if so, then why is this not a universal principle? Why should Sparkhill in Birmingham not have more white people brought in? Indeed – once again – why should the Indian subcontinent or Africa not be forced to diversify by bringing in a lot of white people from Wales? Surely the locals will be amenable. Or would there be something sinister as well as silly about making such a case?

Of course the answer is yes: it would be very sinister and very silly to put forward such an argument. But somehow not when it comes to our own green spaces.

There is a madness about this approach. Some people have spent the past week claiming there are not enough Muslims walking around the countryside because too many people there have dogs, and these dogs are often off leads and might therefore be distasteful to Muslims who consider dogs to be haram. What can we do to accommodate that? Cull the dogs? Have areas for dogs to be walked in and areas in which Muslims might roam?

What of the pubs and hostelries in our rural areas? Should Muslims and other minorities be forced into the local pub in order to help diversify it? Should they be forced to drink warm bitter? Or would that be unseemly in some way?

By now we can all agree that there are plenty of people who dislike our country as well as our countryside. But to have government agencies warring on us is a different thing entirely, and I wonder where it will end. In this interim period, perhaps one might simply make a plea to anyone at Defra who has ears to hear.

There is a wonderful poem by W.H. Auden from the 1950s called ‘Streams’, which closes touchingly with the poet referring to the water being ‘Glad – though goodness knows why – to run with the human race’. It is the final two lines of the poem that most move me. There the poet refers to his wish for ‘the least of men’ to have ‘their figures of splendour, their holy places’.

If everyone else is allowed to have their holy places, is it not the right of the British people to have our own holy places too? Or is that another double standard? We can all too easily guess.


Observador - Alterações climáticas: um debate estéril (Alberto Gonçalves)

 

(sublinhados pessoais. Reflexões silenciosas...)

Alterações climáticas: um debate estéril

Fora do “wishful thinking” de determinadas comunidades “científicas” e da redacção do “Expresso”, não deve haver praticamente uma alminha que evite ter filhos por se afligir com a temperatura

A partir de um estudo estrangeiro de 2021 e de um estudo nacional ainda não publicado, o “Expresso” concluiu que “Quatro em cada dez jovens hesitam ter filhos [sic] por causa das alterações climáticas”.

Os resultados são assustadores: assusta assistir na nossa época tão informada e esclarecida à repetição do exacto “milenarismo” de há mil anos. E “exacto” é força de expressão. Por regra, as crenças medievais no iminente fim dos tempos tinham alguma razão de ser, e aconteciam em períodos de crise ligados a guerras, fome e epidemias – ou seja, às trivialidades quotidianas daqueles tempos. Hoje, os “jovens”, que prolongam a juventude até à meia-idade e beneficiam de um conforto que os senhores feudais nem sequer podiam imaginar, deixam-se tolher face a uma ameaça vaga, discutível e, salvo na retórica apocalíptica do eng. Guterres, remota. Além disso, os medos justificados de antigamente, aliados à escassez de anticoncepcionais eficazes, não impediam as pessoas de se reproduzirem, imprudência sem a qual não estaríamos aqui, eu, o leitor, os jornalistas do “Expresso” e as jovens que padecem de “ecoansiedade” entrevistadas pelo “Expresso”. Já os medos comparativamente injustificados de agora parecem implicar uma apetência para a extinção da espécie. Antes que o clima trate do assunto, a própria espécie despacha-o mediante suicídio programado.

Isto tudo, note-se, se levarmos a sério os referidos estudos e o artigo do “Expresso”. No artigo, se o espremermos bem, o vetusto semanário limita-se a falar com duas “jovens” portuguesas. Uma, Catarina, 25 anos, teme procriar por não encontrar “respostas claras” a duas perguntas “difíceis”: “Até que idade poderá viver um filho que tenha nos dias de hoje? Será que a zona onde vivemos continuará habitável daqui a algumas décadas?”. Não são perguntas difíceis. Eis as respostas: 1) até aos oitenta, oitenta e dois, se atendermos à esperança de vida actual; 2) à conta das proezas do “poder local” e dos efeitos da “arquitectura” contemporânea, inúmeras “zonas” do país já não são habitáveis há muito.

A segunda “jovem” a falar com o “Expresso” chama-se Mourana, tem 29 anos e pertenceu à Greve Climática Estudantil, uns moços e moças que, a fim de prevenir o degelo,  lançam tinta em cima de políticos, vandalizam montras e bloqueiam estradas. Após ter cortado nos banhos e na carne, vencido as insónias e experimentado “diferenças nas capacidades cognitivas”, Mourana licenciou-se em psicologia, arranjou emprego (?) no grupo EcoPsi, “focado na promoção da saúde mental no cenário de alterações climáticas”, e “recuperou o sonho de ser mãe”. Que bom. Ou não.

É que há duas questões fundamentais em que o artigo do “Expresso” não toca. Por um lado, é positivo não só que os “ecoansiosos” tenham reservas em produzir descendentes como é sobretudo aconselhável que não o façam de todo. A julgar pelo alegado desarranjo mental dos hipotéticos pais, nada indica que os filhos, alimentados a caldos de imaturidade, ilusões de grandeza, visões do Juízo Final e paranóia, possam sair menos avariados. O provável é saírem mais avariados, mesmo que convenha apurar se tal é possível.

A outra questão de que o “Expresso” foge é a seguinte: em vez de debater se as alterações climáticas de influência antropogénica existem na dimensão propagada e com as consequências anunciadas, não seria preferível aceitar que existem, desejar que existam e rogar aos santinhos que cumpram o seu papel com rapidez? Dito de maneira diferente, vale a pena ambicionar a continuação de sociedades em que uma parte significativa da população não regula bem? Se as percentagens de “ecoansiosos” forem autênticas, é altura de começar a ponderar não os riscos das alterações climáticas, e sim a respectiva necessidade. Os perigos decorrentes de gente que, sem reparar no absurdo, recorre a tecnologia avançada para organizar manifestações em que se exige a devolução da humanidade ao Paleolítico são muito maiores. Entre ver a Terra arrasada por ondas de calor e inundações ou entregue a multidões de tontos, o meu coração não balançaria.

A nossa sorte é que estes dilemas épicos não se colocam. De regresso à realidade, fora do “wishful thinking” de determinadas (e financiadas) comunidades “científicas” e da redacção do “Expresso”, não deve haver praticamente uma alminha que evite ter filhos por se afligir com a temperatura a longo prazo. As novas gerações evitam ter filhos, e na verdade têm pouquíssimos, porque as casas são caras, porque os salários são baixos, porque tendem ao egoísmo, porque não apreciam obrigações, porque simplesmente não calhou e porque dispõem da pílula, ora essa.

A invocação, neste contexto, das “alterações climáticas” apenas visa conceder uma dignidade postiça a motivos prosaicos. É um tique contagioso, uma forma infantil de legitimação, uma “causa” que à semelhança da adesão a “causas” similares convence os meninos e as meninas de que têm relevância nos destinos do mundo. Depois, na maioria dos casos, os meninos e as meninas crescem. E uns tantos multiplicam-se.


The Spectator - British politics has become a Devil’s Wheel



 

(personal underlines)

British politics has become a Devil’s Wheel

There is a moment in Evelyn Waugh’s Decline and Fall which has been much on my mind lately. It is the bit towards the very end of the novel when our hero, Paul Pennyfeather, re-encounters the sinister modernist architect Professor Otto Silenus. By this point Pennyfeather has undergone all manner of travails. He has been debagged and sent down from Oxford, accused of human-trafficking and sent to prison. But, as the pair sit outside the Corfu villa in which Pennyfeather is staying, the professor suddenly offers to reveal his theory about the meaning of life.

Silenus describes a particular fairground attraction, the Devil’s Wheel (‘the big wheel at Luna Park’). For five francs the public can go into a room with tiers of seats. At the centre is a great revolving floor which spins around fast. People try to clamber up the revolving floor and get to the centre of the wheel. How everyone laughs as they see other players get flung off. How they whoop and holler as they get similarly flung around and fail in their climb.

‘I don’t think that sounds very much like life,’ said Paul rather sadly.

‘Oh, but it is, though,’ [replied Silenus.] ‘You see, the nearer you can get to the hub of the wheel the slower it is moving and the easier it is to stay on. There’s generally someone in the centre who stands up and sometimes does a sort of dance. Often he’s paid by the management, though, or, at any rate, he’s allowed in free. Of course at the very centre there’s a point completely at rest, if one could only find it.’

In recent years I have thought of this passage often while observing British politics. The whooping, laughter and falls seem to have become almost part of the purpose of things. For the press and other participants, they seem to provide a meaning of a kind.

Remember when we thought we couldn’t be worse run than we were under Theresa May? Remember how, having got rid of her, we had the great dawn of Boris Johnson? Remember how that devolved into a great row about a cake and booze and eventually some completely unknown Tory MP touching someone’s bum and the whole government collapsing? Remember the hours of Liz Truss and the rain-soaked end of Rishi Sunak? Next the great dawn of Keir Starmer, and now perhaps the end of that too. How many people in politics have been picked up and flung off this great revolving fairground ride in the past decade?

I can’t deny that there isn’t a certain fascination to it all. If Labour is mad enough to turf out Keir Starmer I suppose we might get Angela Rayner as prime minister, or conceivably see Ed Miliband enter Downing Street. Perhaps even this Labour party would blush at that switcheroo, vote for Christmas and we could then watch most of them get thrown off the wheel in their turn. Certainly there would be a sort of pleasure in watching this. As there was this week when Wes Streeting – who seems to imagine he could be prime minister – released all of his private text messages with Peter Mandelson, apparently in an effort to slow the wheel down, with the result that he merely sped it up.

I suppose the one consolation that the players have in this country is that our particular fairground ride is not as lethal as it is in other places.

News came through last week of the death of Saif Gaddafi, son of the late and unlamented Libyan leader. He appears to have been murdered by a rival faction in the north-west of the country. Personally I was rather surprised to learn he was alive at all. Some years ago, amid the Gaddafis’ crackdown on the Arab uprising, Saif decided to join his father in fighting to the last bullet to keep his family in power. His father then met a distinctly sticky end at the hands of a mob and a knife. Saif turned out to have been captured somewhere in the south. After a time he was reported to have re-emerged with a few fingers missing, with his captors saying something about frostbite in the desert. It seemed rather more likely they had caused the falling-off during some interrogation procedure.

All of which brings another memory to mind – that time in the late 2000s when a whole bunch of people in the UK tried to bring the Gaddafis in from the cold. The London School of Economics awarded Saif a PhD which had clearly been written for him.  The university’s then leadership accepted a seven-figure donation from the family, with those of us who criticised it being breezily dismissed. LSE even invited Colonel Gaddafi to give a guest lecture via video-link.

The fawning-ness of the students was quite something to behold. If the guest lecturer had been a Republican leader from Washington D.C. there would have been nothing but protests and heckling. But this was merely the butcher of Lockerbie and so, after a slavish introduction from faculty, the nice students asked the Colonel hardball questions like: ‘Where do you see Libya´s place in the world?’ A question I will forever be grateful for, because – after a pause – he replied through a translator, ‘Libya is in north Africa’, showing that perhaps the only person to rate that crop of students lower than I did was a dictator sitting in Tripoli.

As ever, I digress. My point is simply that it is quite the trajectory the Gaddafis ended up being on. One day they were lauded in London, and grandees couldn’t move for invites to meet them. The next moment they were waving their digits and promising to fight to the last bullet, never expecting the last bullets would be aimed at themselves.

I suppose most countries, like most sensible people, would like to find the still point in this spinning world. The best way to achieve that would be to find someone – paid or unpaid by the fairground – who has the nerves, skill and staying power to show us how to get there.