Plebs? No, but I wish they'd remember we are their bosses
This is Peter Hitchens' Mail On Sunday column
Security was made for man, not man for security. The point of all these searches, gates, checks, X-rays and stupid questions is – we are told – to keep us safe.
So why is it that the people in charge of these systems act as if they were prison warders processing us for a ten- year sentence?
I have no love for Andrew Mitchell. I know from personal experience that he swears too much. But after a week in which the National Union of Jobsworths has sought to smear and destroy him, I have decided to take Mr Mitchell’s side.
Why? Partly because I have had enough of officious people in uniform, whose wages I pay but who – at best – regard me as a nuisance.
They have no need to be like this. The British Army (one of the last institutions in the country that is any good) won golden opinions for the way its soldiers handled Olympic security with charm and competence.
Mr Mitchell simply wanted to ride his bicycle – democratic, clean, quiet, and a form of transport I think all politicians should be compelled to use – through a gate. He’d done it before.
Had he been sprawled arrogantly on the back seat of a big fat Government car, flanked by smarmy bureaucrats, he’d have been waved through. But no, PC Jobsworth ruled, probably from behind his machine gun, that it was ‘policy’ to make Mr Mitchell go through the side gate. Ah ‘policy’, the obstructive jack-in-office’s excuse for refusing to be helpful, in our supposed free- market economy.
Your favourite marmalade has disappeared from the shelves? It’s ‘company policy’. You have to endure two minutes of pointless, deafening, half-witted announcements every time your train approaches or leaves a station? It’s ‘company policy’.
This is just another way of saying that you count for nothing, and your complaint will be tossed straight into the bin.
And then there’s the bit about how Mr Mitchell ‘said’ he was the Chief Whip. Said? How could this officer not have known? When I worked at the House of Commons, in another age, the wise, calm, helpful constables who staffed the place made it their business to know by sight the name of every single MP, 630 or more, within a week of a General Election.
If I were in charge of the police guarding Downing Street, I would get rid of any constable working there who could not identify by sight and without hesitation every member of the Cabinet.
This episode will, I hope, rebound hard on those who seem to me to have abused their positions to make trouble for a Minister. They should remember who employs them, and who pays their wages.
They are not paid to leak such matters to the papers. This is lawless personal spite, not law enforcement.
If they really thought the law had been broken, then they should have arrested Mr Mitchell.
Our police force has gone badly wrong and it’s time it laid down its guns, sold its helicopters, removed its baseball caps and stompy boots, and went back to patrolling the streets on foot – and on bikes.
That’s my ‘policy’.
Only fools swallow Nutt's gibberish
The much-touted Channel 4 programme on ecstasy turned out to be rather pathetic. Professor David Nutt, the noted propagandist for weaker drug laws, oozed so much self-regard that the studio audience almost drowned in it.
Poor Jon Snow, looking about 90 and trying with all his might to get down with the kids, greeted Old Nutt’s pseudo-scientific gibberish with gullible cries of wonder, a sad comedown for this normally skilled and probing inquisitor.
In the middle of it all, a vast plastic brain, looking like a discarded prop from a Seventies episode of Doctor Who, flashed and flickered to illustrate Old Nutt’s vague but ambitious speculations about the workings of this mysterious, little-understood organ.
Then there was Dr Evan Harris, who ‘bravely’ volunteered to take part in the trial. Did he take ecstasy? Nobody’s sure. Dr Harris’s pupils are always so dilated anyway, due to his wonder at his own cleverness, that nobody – including him – could be sure if he had been given real MDMA or a dummy pill.
What was this all about? I reckon there is, or soon will be, very big money behind the exploitation of mood-altering drugs (look at the vast commercial success of fishy, risky ‘antidepressants’).
The only obstacles are those pesky people, like the courageous Professor Andy Parrott, who warn that the risks of drugs such as ecstasy hugely outweigh their joys. Professor Parrott, though not on the platform and often interrupted, was the true star of the programme.
A life of genius and real drama
Sometimes the death of an actor gives me a special pang – especially when it’s one whose face I have known since childhood. I was always fascinated by the mysterious, faintly scornful foreign features of Herbert Lom, whose performance in the original and unequalled version of The Ladykillers was a work of genius.
Now he has died, aged 95, I find that he really was mysterious, and haunted by an intolerable regret, more dramatic than any drama. First, he was a Bohemian aristocrat whose real name was Herbert Karel Angelo Kuchacevic ze Schluderpacheru. You can see why he stuck to Lom.
Second, he arrived in England as a refugee in 1939 with his Jewish girlfriend. He was allowed in by the Dover Customs officers. She was sent back to Prague and, in due course, was murdered in a German concentration camp. You could make a film of that, but alas, Herbert Lom is no longer available to star in it.
Why does this country still maintain a vast, expensive apparatus for wiping Moscow off the map? Trident is as obsolete as the Maginot Line, built for a danger that is over and will not arise again.
Meanwhile, our conventional Armed Forces, our real protection against unpredictable risks, are being made redundant and sold for scrap. Sir Nick Harvey is quite right to open a debate on the severe shrinking of our oversized bomb.
Can we really believe that Mr Slippery, Etonian and holder of an Oxford first-class degree, doesn’t know what Magna Carta means? If he doesn’t know, then things are even worse than I thought (and that means very bad indeed). If he does, what was he playing at?