Prole position
Taki
Rougemont hy, when those of us who actually fought the Germans in 1939-45 have long buried the hatchet, must our tabloid newspapers incite British yobs to hate them?' asks Lord Deedes in the Daily Telegraph. Well, that's an easy one, dear Bill. Proletarian values, for one, which are the same as Murdochian standards and morals, championed by men and women of almost cartoonish crudeness and vulgarity, the socalled British tabloid journalists of today. Ironically, just after the England–Germany football match, my friend Charlie Glass and I watched The Blue Max, a golden oldie about a German squadron during the first world war. In the film, a workingclass German soldier manages to be sent to flying school after two years in the trenches and eventually joins up with lots of vons, aristocratic Prussian flyers who see jousting in the sky as a form of sport rather than combat. Eager for fame and glory — 20 confirmed kills earns one the Blue Max, the highest decoration the Fatherland can bestow — the prole shoots down a defenceless British pilot whose gunner is dead. His squadron-leader is appalled. 'This is not warfare,' he tells the oik. 'It's murder.' Just like the yobs we saw fighting in the streets,' said Charlie.
I know it's only a film, but that's how I've always understood warfare, as well as sport, to be. A couple of days later, England's numero uno gossip columnist, Nigel Dempster, arrived at Rougemont from BadenBaden. Were the Germans pissed off?' I asked him. 'Not only did I not hear a word against England,' he told me, 'four people came up and congratulated me for the English victory.' Yes, but Nigel was attending a race meeting in Baden-Baden, full of well-born and gracious Germans. In fact, one of the British commentators said to him how surprised he was to see so many well-mannered people.
Par for the course. Society today, espe
cially in Britain, is shaped by the lowest standards of decency and by the nastiest people. With the fall of socialism, the progressive forces have placed most of their chips on the undermining of morality, and woe to those who believe in such tired-out values as fair play and magnanimity in victory. This is the Murdoch era, a crazy, over-hyped celebrity culture, with our entertainment so debased we now regard beauty as offensive.
Mind you, what puzzles me is the jingoism of the scummy tabloids against Germany on one hand, and their willingness to go along with Blair's surrender to the new class of international bureaucrat — as in the EU — on the other. A fat rodent of a gossip columnist, a man so ugly he would be refused entrance to an Albanian whorehouse, criticised Jemima Khan for continuing her father's crusade against the Euro. The rodent went as far as to make fun of the Goldsmith family's looks. Now if there's one family whose looks do not exactly need improvement it's the Goldsmiths. The mind boggles. Yet Jemima's message was right on target. 'Only experts are qualified to decide the direction of public policy and that ordinary people, be they dustmen or dukes, cannot be expected to grasp the complexities of modern politics ...'
The Democracy Movement, whose president is Annabel Goldsmith and whose director is Robin Birley, Jemima's mother and brother respectively, is a going concern which I support. We have 300,000 signed-up members and 200 branches. Unlike the tabloid scum, we have nothing against the Germans — my favourite army and people — but for the fact that Democracy Movement members believe that having won two wars against the Fatherland they have the right to remain British and independent of Berlin. It's very simple, really, but how are the yobs and oiks who 'read' Murdoch tabloids and watch Murdoch TV expected to understand? Like the prole pilot in The Blue Max, they have not been imbued with aristocratic values rooted in Christianity, ancient Greece and Rome. And Prussia, for that matter.
Needless to say, the man who got it absolutely spot on was Frederick Forsyth, writing in Bill Cash's European Journal. The novelist does not mince his words. 'Within three years (1995) it was plain that the majority of the Tory party's members, and even a majority of the population as a whole had no taste at all for abolition of their national currency.' But John Major and the coterie around him refused to admit it. Major had to be the worst Tory premier ever. Firmly in the grip of Michael Heseltine and Kenneth Clarke, he did not have the guts to throw out the bums, despite the fact that he was sorely tempted. Heseltine, a traitor in my book, is fortunately now out of politics and alongside people like that Levy chappie in the House Blair built. But we still have oik Clarke. He should take out a video of The Blue Max. Duncan-Smith is the squadron-leader, and he's the prole.
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