Scrapbook for October

15.10.2025 – Balliol thickos of the world, unite!

The Oxford Politics, Philosphy and Economics (PPE) degree will equip no normal person for any normal activity after acquiring it. Nevertheless, in the UK it has become a badge of honour for abnormal persons – would-be politicians, their would-be bag carriers and would-be political journalists.

The degree neither deepens understanding nor broadens views: the knowledge conveyed is arguably not particularly beneficial for a life in the rough old trade of politics – three years in a real job would probably be more use. The syllabus promotes relativism, on-the-one-hand, on-the-other-hand thinking and the interests of the administrative state rather than those of the allegedly free citizen. The UK Government and Parliament is infested with a disproportionate number of these half-educated fools: not a surprise when we consider the current state of the UK.

The single (and quite questionable benefit) is to provide the new graduate with a career-enhancing support network within the political jungle.

As an example of the student type, we could take specimens from almost anywhere in and around the corridors of power. Fortuitously, though, one particular specimen has popped up into view.

Meet Samuel Williams. Not only did he make it to Oxford University to do PPE, he made it to Balliol College, the crème de la crème destination for those on the PPE trail. You have probably read about him. Last Saturday, 11 October, as Donald Trump was on his way to sign the Middle-East peace agreement, young Sam was one of the leaders of a pro-Palestine march in central London. This child of immense privilege was bellowing from a loudspeaker:

A steadfast and noble resistance in Palestine and in Gaza to look to, to be inspired by and – I don't want to yap for too long – but a chant that we've been workshopping in Oxford that maybe you guys want to join in.

It goes 'Gaza, Gaza make us proud, put the Zios [=Zionists =Jews] in the ground'.

As a free speech absolutist, I don't really care what emerges from Sam's scrambled brain – it's better to have this rot out in the open than suppressed under censure. I was more shocked by the fact that the result of his 'workshopping' of his chant is so dismal.

At least it sort of scans but only a pig-ignorant PPE student would rhyme 'proud' with 'ground'. This is what an expensive education gets you down the PPE road.

Some protestors near him were waving a banner saying: 'Oxford University pick a side, justice or genocide'. The rhyme leads us to expect some versification, but the scanning goes out the window. Clearly, irrespective of their political myopia, the PPE workshoppers are not a learnèd lot, oh no.

In the meantime Samuel has been suspended by Oxford. I hope his arrogance and stupidity hasn't cost him his future. Students are by nature foolish brats, but we expect their expensive and highly credentialled tutors to knock some sense in them during the three years they have them. Oxford should really think hard about the uncritical mush its students are acquiring and their lack of analytical thinking. The University is distancing itself from Samuel's opinions – but if it knew of them and did nothing to counter them then that's a scandal; if it didn't know about them then that is probably a worse scandal. However, a term course on the poetry of Algernon Charles Swinburne might work wonders for their chanting and placarding skills.

15.10.2025 – Citizen Windsor

The Deputy Royal Editor of the Telegraph, Victoria Ward, tells us that 'King at a loss over how to solve his Prince Andrew problem'.

As I am sure you know, Prince Andrew in this case is the King's younger brother, His Royal Highness The Prince Andrew, a.k.a Andrew Albert Christian Edward Windsor, Duke of York, Earl of Inverness, Baron Killyleagh, Knight Grand Cross of the Royal Victorian Order (GCVO), Royal Fellow of the Royal Society (FRS) etc. etc. Since his birth in 1960 His Highness, who, we are told, was the late Queen's favourite child, has accumulated more decorations than a Christmas tree: titles, gongs, stars, sashes and ribbons. He currently has the rank of Vice Admiral. The contrast between his baubles and his current status as one of the nation's most despised personages is 'the Andrew problem'. Decluttering Andrew is going to be a big job.

If only he could have been just another dim bulb like all the rest of the Windsors. Charles may have spent his adult years being an opinionated simpleton with the occasional distasteful episode, but Andrew's entire adult life has been filled with hints of scandal, dubious associations, dubious deals, debt defaults and much dissembling and outright lying. The evidence of his proximity to Epstein brought the whole thing to a head and more is certain to come. He will be forever accompanied by a bad smell, a taint that he will never be able to wash out. He is the family member who ought to be locked up in the North Tower, never to be seen in public again.

Ms. Ward does a lot of musing on how he could be stripped of at least some of his Christmas tree decorations and prevented from showing himself in public. Andrew's angry sense of self-importance and entitlement, despite his current disgrace, will seemingly not let him drift quietly with his silly non-wife into a life of obscurity and good works.

The solution to the Andrew problem is quite simple: King Charles doesn't have to do anything – the media must simply get into the habit of ignoring his titles and his general pomposity. 'Mr. Andrew Windsor' would be enough. Or even 'the sleazebag formerly known as Prince'. No law is mandating the use of his titles, it is done out of respect. Andrew Windsor forfeited the nation's respect a long time ago. Even in today's authoritarian times, it can hardly be illegal to address someone as 'Mr.'.

Once one or two major outlets start using this form of address the rest will follow. My preference is for 'Citizen Windsor', which would give all the other Christmas trees in this benighted, terminally dumb line of descent something to think about.

14.10.2025 – Neolithic Hobbits

Nearly three months ago I was fussing about the effort the reader needs to put in to sustain the precarious suspension of disbelief required to get through Tolkien's The Hobbit:

… your mind wanders around wondering where, in the Shire, is the infrastructure that makes brass door knobs and round glass for windows and all the other civilised things that are stuffed into Bilbo's hobbit hole? Who brings Bilbo's post? Who produces all the choice cuts, all the pies and cakes and beer that fill his several larders? Before long your mind – well, my mind – is thinking Marxist thoughts about the means of production in this rural idyll and the exploitation of the working classes by well-heeled capitalists such as… er… Bilbo Baggins.

Well, it takes me some time these days, but I usually get there in the end.

After writing about Rudyard Kipling's dalliance with the New Stone Age, the thought dawned on me: What if Tolkien had set The Hobbit – and more generally the whole world of The Lord of the Rings – in the Neolithic Age? Or perhaps even better, in the Anglo-Saxon times about which he knew so much? Much of it is already in this latter context: the weaponry, the battles, the journeys, the local kingdoms and fiefs. We could even have some hot Anglo-Saxon warrior-chicks, who would certainly brighten up the grey maleness of the tale.

We wouldn't need to fret about the whereabouts of the chemical factories which produce the fine green paint for Bilbo's front door, the glass factories for Bilbo's windows, the textile mills for his clothes and his carpets – and his fine assortment of handkerchiefs, for that matter. The fantasy world of the story would no longer be nowhere and at no historical time. It would still be inaccessible to us, but within the context of an easily imagined time and place. All the magical elements – the dragon, the wizards, the invocations – would be particularly appropriate to the Anglo-Saxon foretime, since much of the spirit of it, via the author's studies, particularly Beowulf, is already there. While we are at it we could remove all the silly asides that so disrupt the narrative.

My fee for this rewrite would be a modest ten million Swiss Francs – chump change for the Tolkien estate.

The treatment (and the bill) is in the post.

07.10.2025 – Shellology

In my piece on Rudyard Kipling's poem 'In the Neolithic Age' I slid somewhat off-piste into a discussion of that fine old Romance word crosa, in Occitan meaning a cave or cavity, in Romansh nowadays meaning a shell of some type – eggshell, nutshell or snailshell.

I asked my Romansh native-speaking neighbour what he understood by the word la/ina crosa. Remembering his childhood in our alpine village he recalled that the hens sometimes produced eggs without shells, the outer part being just the membrane. Those were the days before expensive, nutritionally-balanced chicken feeds were available – or, more to the point, affordable – so that the hens scratching around the farmhouses were often living on a dietary edge (as were many of the humans, too). The hens appear to have been aware of this deficit and whenever they could they would eat the eggshell after a chick had hatched. Eggshells left over in the kitchen were also given to the hens.

My neighbour, warming to the old word crosa, then recalled that as a child one of his jobs was collecting snails or snailshells (las crosas), to give to the hens. So we discovered a double crosa in symbiosis: eggshells and snailshells. Those were the days.

3.10.2025 – Pope Leo XIV blesses block of ice

The Catholic Church has been anti-science for as long as it has existed, so no need to feign surprise. Leo prefaced the blessing with a rant about climate deniers. The Terminator said a few words. After the blessing those present did a little New Age dawning of Aquarius thing. What the Fathers of the Church would have made of that, I don't know.

All our questions are practical. From where did they get that block of ice? Giovanni's Gelateria? What have they done with it now it's blessed? Is it in a refrigerated case somewhere on display next to the golden cabinet containing the left thumb of St. Pankratius? If you lick it will it cure your hot flushes? Did they just leave it in a sink somewhere until it melted miraculously disappeared? Did it go back to Giovanni? Will Giovanni go to heaven? What about all the squillions of tons of unblessed ice in the world? Who do we blame if the world suddenly reverts to an ice age? It's all Trump's fault, of course.