‘Behead those who insult Islam,” demanded a placard. Blimey, how would these Muslims protest if the cartoons were actually funny? We have not seen such a sense-of-humour failure since Prezza found Charles Clarke had scoffed the last jam roly-poly.
The police smiled at the young girl in the “I Love Al-Qaeda” bobble hat, and her elders threatening death: the law banning incitement to racial hatred it seems applies only to nasty white racists; these bigots avoided its strictures.
These extremists should be told: you can’t complain that Islam is being tarred with terrorism, then instantly threaten to terrorise those who have thus depicted Islam. It is perverse.
Yet Jack Straw grovels like a spaniel, even though the cartoons have not been printed here. He argues Islam should not be insulted as no “open season” exists on Christianity. Er, foreign secretary, have you never been to a Gilbert and George exhibition?
Their latest offering is Sonofagod Pictures — Was Jesus Heterosexual?. Christ is subjected to sniggers normally endured only by Mark Oaten.
An open season is indeed what we have on Christianity. The Virgin Mary depicted as a crack whore? “How dreary,” we would sigh, “not again.” Jesus on the cross enjoying a nice spot of S&M? Too tame to win the Turner Prize. Another G&G masterpiece carries the inscription “God Loves F******!”. Yet even artists whose shtick is to shock would never lampoon God’s Islamic oppo.
The one established faith in this country is the only one we are free to insult. Since cinemas looked so silly banning The Life of Brian, the church has given up asking not to be jeered. It seems almost grateful for the attention. Who would protest if an Islamic cartoon showed an Anglican suicide bomber packing Semtex in the boot of his Morris Minor?
Turning a tolerant cheek is one of Christianity’s most appealing aspects. Certain other faiths lack that blessed gift: the ability to laugh.
Perhaps Muslims take offence more because they believe more. We should be sensitive to that. But they must also realise that the West’s real religion is rationalism: all beliefs, even faiths, should be open to reasoned attack.
Our self-censorship shows why the clause that would have banned religious insults was not needed. Islam is protected by an invisible blasphemy law. It is called fear.
The headlines were clear: “Prescott backs school reform”. Oh dear. It was John Boy who, in the most eloquent enunciation of Labour values yet, opined that the problem with creating successful schools is that everyone would want to go to them.
He is teased for being incoherent, but in one phrase he articulated — more succinctly than any colleague, including those who actually passed their 11-plus — the difference between those of us who believe choice drives up standards and those who feel we should be bloody grateful for whatever the state chucks at us.
Many of us were struggling to decide if we backed the education bill; depending on who was being spun to, it seemed to offer two entirely different visions. But if the Prescottian Jaguar has swerved into a 180-degree turn it means just one thing: Tony Blair has caved in to the (failing) Prescott school of education.
And what a familiar pattern: Blair vows to fight to the death, then backs down entirely. Blair promises of defiance are like Silvio Berlusconi pledges of chastity: sincerely meant, perhaps, but withdrawn by bedtime.
When confusion reigns, sometimes one can only judge a measure by its men. So if dear old John Boy is all for this bill, we should surely be against it.
We’re the only gays in the lake
Well they are pink, so that must be a giveaway. Two flamingos, Carlos and Fernando, have been outed as Britain’s “first gay flamingos”. So there they are, innocently cruising for a loose shrimp, when they are accused of flying for the other side and lined up for a civil partnership. With typical homophobia, tabloids accuse the birds of pinching a straight couple’s chicks. Social services will be round.
This follows the outing of gorillas, lions and even salmon. Soon, no doubt, Fernando will be accused of engaging in “unspeakable acts” with a rent bird, or phoning the notorious gay tweet line, Bird Talk.
It is Peter Tatchell’s revenge. He lost a by-election to “the straight choice” Simon Hughes, then promoted the outing of prominent homosexuals. Far from aiding the image of gays, outing has merely spread bigotry and ruined lives. Take the headline that outed Hughes: “Another one bites the pillow”. Poor flamingos: a moment (well, five years) of madness, and two more blameless figures are forced to duck out of public life.
Bugging MPs – an issue of low intelligence
Parliament could soon be overrun by buggers. I refer, of course, to Tony Blair’s admission that he is considering allowing spooks to bug MPs.
Why bug MPs? They are the last folk to hear a secret. If they do, it will be round the Strangers’ bar by lunch. Their letters tend to be from lobbyists who fleece clients saying MPs have power to do something. Or even that they care. As if. Intelligence? Some would struggle to hold their own in a debate on enlargement with Chantelle.
All that is top secret on an MP’s desk are his expenses and account details with the local Virgin Mega Brothel or wherever it is the MP likes to call his “hinterland”.
The people who would love to acquire these secrets are the whips, who keep “black books” on the private lives of MPs to ensure obedience. If Blair allows the buggers in, rebels will be shafted. And then MPs will be impotent to do what they did, so satisfyingly, to Tone last week — giving him the beating he so richly deserves.
Being attacked by Geoffrey Howe was likened to being “savaged by a dead sheep”; he was not, well, that menacing. But he must be pretty menaced.
For the former deputy prime minister still accepts a chauffeured limo, at taxpayers’ expense, over 15 years after leaving office — for “security reasons”, you understand. Top marks to Norman Baker, the Lib Dem MP, for ferreting this out.
Even Lady Howe must struggle to recall who Geoffrey is. No one seriously believes Osama is in his cave muttering: “We must avenge his boring 1981 budget speech.”
Howe’s one possible assassin is the lady he knifed: Lady T. You can almost see her, Clouseau-like in the bushes, whisky in one hand, smoking revolver in the other: “The sheep is dead. Rejoice!”
