Spot the dictator
The ambition of part of a lifetime was attained when I read last week's New Statesman and saw that I had been upbraided by Richard Evans, Regius Professor of History in the University of Cambridge. I was honoured by being in excellent company: Sir Simon Jenkins also felt the professorial toecap up his fundament. Our offence? Writing in our respective newspapers that Germany was leading an anti-democratic putsch in Europe in order to preserve the EU's basket case of a single currency.
Evidently short on both humour and powers of observation, the professor took exception to my use of the phrase "Fourth Reich", a usage that strikes me as being a statement of fact rather than a term of abuse. "Rhetoric such as Heffer's or Jenkins's is an unthinking throwback to the language of the post-reunification years, even more ignorant and hysterical now than it was then." In my experience of academics, they get adjectival when allowed into the press, usually to try to prove that English is not their second language.
I cannot answer for Sir Simon, but I am bemused. One thing I always thought bound Gladstonian Liberals like me with lefties like Professor Evans was that we supported democracy. Thanks to Germany, and solely to Germany, we have just witnessed coups d'état in two European countries and the installation of unelected heads of government; and they may not be the last. If Professor Evans is relaxed about this, I'm not, and I doubt whether anyone other than a closet totalitarian should be.
Newspaper offices are famed for their climate of profanity, but when it comes to uttering four-letter words there is, I have always thought, a time and a place. I can't help noticing how people one would otherwise imagine perfectly respectable eff and blind in public without any regard for the sensibilities of their audience. I say "people" but I mean men, because I never overhear women on a Tube train having the sort of conversation I couldn't help but hear two men have a few days ago.
Both in their thirties, and in suits and ties, they spoke something like this: "I f***ing told him that the c*** would shaft him if he let him have any f***ing say in the matter, but the c*** just f***ing ignored me." And so it was all the way from Tottenham Court Road to Liverpool Street, at a volume to be heard above the noise of the carriages. Perhaps nobody minds any more. You appear to be able to say anything on television these days, which I presume convinces those of a naturally coarse disposition that they can yell out these words in public. Women, as I say, don't do it. But do they still mind? Judging by the looks of clenched resignation on the faces of female passengers when these louts were sounding off, I think they might.
Nothing soothes more after a hard day at the cutting edge of the digital revolution than some mindless telly: and I rather enjoyed Pan Am when the series took off the other week on BBC2. The Americans do day-before-yesterday drama so much better than we do (cf Mad Men). I endured little of a recent BBC effort, The Hour, set in 1956, before hooting with derision at the solecisms and lack of attention to detail. The only thing that annoyed me about Pan Am was the reminder of how good airline food used to be: a wide selection, cooked and not microwaved, not much different from what one might find in a decent restaurant. I recently flew BA back from business in New York and was offered a selection of three of the most repellent meals imaginable - and that was in the dine-before-you-fly facility at JFK. My ticket wasn't cheap. Perhaps starving the passengers lightens the load and helps save on fuel.
Two lenses right, three lenses rights
I love gadgets, but there is one that, as a man a couple of blinks short of a guide dog, I can't embrace: 3D vision. Contact lenses don't agree with me and, forced to wear specs, I can't also fit on the glasses that everyone else wears for the 3D cinema or TV experience. I suspect this may violate my human rights. Before Dave finally repatriates Britain's powers in this respect, I must see what my exclusion from this new vogue is worth. Now doubt a lawyer will soon be in touch - no win, no fee, of course.
Sorry, Leon, euro on your own
It is, I know, cruel to rub it in about the euro, but there weren't many of us 20 years ago who warned it wouldn't work (three cheers, as always, for Tony Benn, though). Yet I am astonished by the way that accredited euromaniacs still refuse to believe that the whole thing was doomed, or to say sorry for their part in seeking to inflict it upon us.
One who should have known better was Lord Brittan. He claimed in the Financial Times last week that, had we joined the euro, things would have been different because of the size of our economy and our "influence". I knew it would be our fault eventually, and I hope Gordon Brown is properly ashamed of himself. Sorry, Leon, but wrong, wrong, wrong. Had we joined, there would still have been the fiscal disparities that did, in fact, bring the project to its knees. For Greece would still have had an entirely different benefits system from that of Germany; tax would still not have been
collected as efficiently in Puglia and the Peloponnese as in Bavaria; and the European Commission would still not have brought errant countries into line by the system of fines and other penalties that the original plan for the euro had enshrined in it.
I am sure Lord Brittan has no other agenda and believes sincerely in the great project. However, I do wish that when former Eurocrats like him inflict their views on us, they would do us all the courtesy of declaring their interest in making the points they do. They might let us into the secret of just how much, exactly, the EU pays them in pension entitlements. We might, then, be better informed as we make up our minds about how far to take them seriously.
Simon Heffer is the editor of Mail Comment Online and a columnist for the Daily Mail.
His new book is "A Short History of Power" (Notting Hill Editions, £12)