Commies are getting a good press
Lefties are somehow assumed to be doing things for idealistic reasons, and for the collective good, and their high motives excuse their appalling solutions. That is why the servants of communist tyranny get sympathetic obits, and modern British girls wear CCCP T-shirts, and that is why a Labour Government can enact a series of authoritarian measures that a Conservative government could not contemplate
Nigella Chat Show
[Ed: update - this has now been cancelled with no further information provided for now]
ID Cards Vote
Prime Minister’s Identity Crisis?
Ferdinand Mount in The Daily Telegraph has a point when he says that:
There is no need for the Government to make such a fool of itself. In all these cases, and plenty more, private individuals and institutions are working out their own solutions, at their own pace. Government intervention adds nothing much except confusion, intrusion and the making of martyrs.
The trouble is that the death of old-style socialism has left a huge gap in Labour’s agenda, and this vexatious legislation is all they can think of to fill it.
ID Cards Second Reading
Information from Olly Dommett, Researcher to Boris.
Tomorrow is the big vote: Second Reading of the ID Cards Bill at 9.30/10.00pm.
* BBC News here *
* Home Office copy of the Bill *
Boris has always been opposed to ID cards and now the Party is fully with him on this; and what with the Lib Dems on board and Labour’s majority reduced the result should be tight.
Smoking in public
Butt out – social ostracism is working
I just don’t have the willpower. I try and I try, but I can’t seem to get the habit. My smoking problem is that I simply can’t take it up. Every time we go away, I pack this pathetic cigar, and every time I imagine myself firing it up at the end of dinner, and having a damn good smoke. I see myself as a more humane version of Saddam, glorying in my Cohiba, savouring the aroma of the world’s finest tobacco, rolled on the thighs of whatever virgins there are left in Havana.
And then dinner comes to its close. The crickets are crying triumphantly. The pousse-café is drained and it is time for the combustion and inhalation of this stonking great courgette. I ease it out of its case, and pinch it delicately between forefinger and thumb. I sniff one end. I sniff the other end. I take out my box of England’s Glory (also specially packed), and prepare to strike a match.
