11 January 2003  
Frontpage
Cover Story
Features
Editorial
Only On The Web
Columnists
Cartoons
Books
Lives
Your Problems Solved
Classified


HIGH LIFE

 Thoughts on thuggery

Taki
 Gstaad

It seems almost obscene to be sitting in bucolic Gstaad rubbing it in, but boy, oh boy, was Enoch — God rest his soul — ever right! Now there’s a man who was tough on the causes of crime long before crime had been Blaired. Or Strawed. Or Blunketted. What a bunch of bullshitters. Britain is being mugged by black hoodlums, people are being cut down in the streets à la Mogadishu in the early Nineties, and these clowns are passing a Bill which will put the poor little Greek boy in jail if I dare to defend Slobodan Milosevic (which I do, by the way).



It doesn’t take an extremely high IQ to figure out that the two girls who were shot in Birmingham were killed because a member of their family belonged to a rival gang. Nor does it take a genius to conclude that turf wars between mostly black gangs are fought over the control of drugs, mainly crack cocaine. Finally, only a moron would not surmise that what politically correct newspapers refer to as ‘disaffected young people’ are black thugs, sons of black thugs and grandsons of black thugs, in it for the money.

But let’s lighten up a bit. If you thought comedy was dead, what about Blunkett instructing Woolf to instruct the judges to use community penalties against violent criminals rather than sending the poor dears to do a Taki? This only six weeks ago. What a bunch of yo-yos! Talk about a gang that can’t shoot straight. If they had any shame, they would invite the hoodlums to take over the government, and I’m willing to bet my last euro that things would improve. At least we’d have some law and order. The trouble is if they did that, they’d all have to go on welfare, as none of them are capable of earning a living except in the bullshit business.

Writing in the Mail, Melanie Phillips, a good writer who knows her stuff, refers to the hoodlums as lacking self-esteem because of their shattered emotional backgrounds. I remember tens of millions whose backgrounds were shattered during the war — by rape, murder and pillage — who did not turn to crime but managed to live useful lives. No, the problem is not lack of self-esteem, a trick word used as often as racism. It’s being given something for nothing. It’s the welfare state. The socialist creed. The compassionate society. The bullshit society. West Indians were allowed to immigrate after the war, multiply like flies, and then the great state apparatus took over the care of their multiplications. The Rivers of Blood speech by Enoch was prophetic as well as true, and look what the bullshitters of the time did to the great man.

But back to bucolic Switzerland. One of the reasons it remains so is that when Taki backs his brand-new yellow mini into a tree, Taki is hauled off to explain. Zero tolerance is strictly applied in good old Helvetia, and I’m all for it, even if it doesn’t suit me late at night. And speaking of yellow minis against trees, I never realised how much publicity is generated when someone is questioned by the fuzz. The top diarist in America, Richard Johnson, writing on Page Six mentioned my last week’s column, then Washington picked it up, followed by El-Lay and the rest. By backing into a tree, I got countless mentions of my magazine, the American Conservative, which gives me food for thought.

I know a publicity-addicted woman by the name of Rena Sindi in New York. Last year the Sunday Telegraph mentioned her when her name appeared on the best-dressed list. ‘Who in heaven’s name is Rena Sindi?’ wrote the diarist. It was a good point. Well, I’ll tell you. She’s an Iraqi-born woman in her mid-thirties, recently divorced from a Saudi. She’s not a bad girl at all, actually quite kind, but her problem is she loves publicity about as much as I love the Wehrmacht. She gives parties which are paid for by sponsors; but I thought she should have disqualified herself after 9/11 because of her background. To the contrary. She even published a book on how to throw parties someone else pays for. Rena, take a plane to Switzerland, get a yellow mini, back it into a tree rather hard, and then wait for the fuzz at home. You’ll have all the publicity you have ever wished for.

But I digress. The snow is finally here, the sun is shining, and I’m off on a chopper for some high-mountain skiing. And, kidding aside, I do feel for the good English people back in England. I remember when England used to feel like Switzerland. That’s before the bullshitters took over.

© 2003 The Spectator.co.uk