The Sprawl of the House of Escher.

The village I live in is perched on a cliff two and a half thousand feet above the Adriatic. For a Westcountryman, who'd been exiled to the fens of East Anglia for over thirty years, that is one of its many attractions. Except in winter. Once the snow has been ploughed the residual layer is soon compacted by the incessant motorised traffic - like the English, the Italians will never walk anywhere if they can drive, no matter how narrow the street - into treacherous ice, making walking round the village a hazardous enterprise. In winter my thrice daily walk with the dogs - we have no garden, and dog faeces wouldn't add to the attractiveness of our 16th century courtyard - changes from an idyll to a nightmare. Two dogs pulling on their leads while you climb up an ice covered street isn't much fun. Going down the slope, though, is even worse, and unfortunately if you go up a hill during your walk logic dictates you must inevitably walk down one to return to your starting point. 

  For many years we were perplexed, and impoverished, by Enel - the Italian electricity company - charging us the higher rate applicable to non-residents. Then one day we noticed that the bill related to 34 Via Roma but was invoiced to 18 Via San Pietro. It took several years to convince Enel that the two addresses related to the same property. For our house sprawls over a slope: the front door and cantinas are accessed from Via Roma whereas if you enter the house from Via San Pietro you find yourself on the floor above. 

   And this has proved a blessing when going shopping in winter. As you can see from the map I can climb up the hill where the village shop is located and return home with my purchases without ever having to go back down it.  

So in this case Escher triumphs over logic; if only it were always so.

Welcome to Bongo Bongo Land.

The Ukip MEP, Godfrey Bloom, has caused a stir by suggesting the aid given by Britain to African countries would be better spent at home, particularly when the UK is still in recession. And, he added, much of the aid is squandered:  “How we can possibly be giving a billion pounds a month, when we’re in this sort of debt, to bongo bongo land is completely beyond me, to buy Ray-Ban sunglasses, apartments in Paris, Ferraris and all the rest of it that goes with most of the foreign aid.”

   He is of course absolutely correct in every respect bar one: the location of Bongo Bongo Land. For this mythical land is not confined to Africa, but has spread its empire to every country, in every continent of the globe, including his own. I've commented before on how the British taxpayer is aiding Goodwin and his ilk to enjoy a gilded life-style. Yesterday's Corriere della Sera carried an article which revealed how Italy, or Bunga Bunga Land, is outstripping the English province of Bongo Bongo Land. To cite just one example: Mauro Sentinelli, the former MD of Telecom Italia, receives a pension of €91,337 a month, paid for by - you've guessed it - the Italian taxpayer. Almost makes you feel sorry for poor old Fred struggling to get by on a mere £342,500 per annum.
  The paper also carried an article by Guido Rossi, Il mercato che uccide la democrazia è il nuovo Leviatano degli egoisti [The Market which is destroying democracy is the new Leviathan of the self-centred]. The Market, he suggests, is the 'regno dell'arrangiarsi e del diritto del più forte' [the kingdom of everyone having to shift for himself where might is right]. Or as, Godfrey Bloom would never put it, the true kingdom of Bongo Bongo Land.

Kate and Wills outed.

The Duke and Duchess of Cambridge have just been outed as Archers' fans. The Mail, Sun, and Express have each exclusively revealed the royal couple's secret.
 William and Kate have decided to name their first-born after two Archer's characters: the self-righteous William Grundy's eldest brat, George, and the late Nigel Pargetter's stepfather, Lewis - one assume's the child's parents will pronounce Louis in the traditional English and current American fashion, rather than attempting the foreign pronunciation favoured by those sad souls who insist on saying Key-oh-tay rather than Quixote, hunta rather than junta, and who mistakenly believe that Byron wrote a poem called Don Wan.
 He is also named after Christopher Robin's pet beetle.

The Queen of Diamonds.

The UK is still suffering from the economic crisis triggered by the greed and criminal ineptitude of American bankers and their European acolytes. It's only reasonable that all its citizens, apart from the most vulnerable, should bear their part of the consequent economic pain.  And that includes pensioners. I would have no objection to Osborne withdrawing the winter fuel allowance from those of us whose annual family income is above the national median. What sticks in the craw is his cynical exploitation of the ignorance of the average voter. Believing the continent to be bathed in perpetual sunshine, 365 days a year, most of the electorate regard withdrawing the fuel allowance for  pensioners  living abroad  as long overdue. Sky News interviewed a councillor from Teignmouth who claimed that his elderly parents living in Madrid had told him they didn't need the allowance because "It's always warm here."  Maybe they are suffering from senile dementia: every independent weather channel I've been able to find states that in winter Madrid's temperature hits freezing, frequently becoming cold enough to support snowfall. 

  Even worse, The Daily Mash and NewsThump  two purportedly satirical websites, posted articles not only supporting Osborne's position but, in the case of The Daily Mash, seeing it as a self-evident truth. 

  NewsThump sells tee-shirts emblazoned with the legend "I think, therefore I am not a Daily Mail reader", thus unwittingly demonstrating that, although satire may be dead, inadvertent self-satire is not.

  I sent a letter to the Guardian:

I am a retired English lecturer living two and a half thousand feet above sea level in central Italy. Every winter we experience prolonged and heavy snow-falls. Electricity in Italy costs roughly twice as much as it does in the UK where I spent all of my working life. I pay UK tax on my modest pension. 

   Although I will lose my winter fuel allowance in 2015, I draw comfort from the fact that once he's sixty, if he's living in the UK, Fred Goodwin will be able to claim the benefit, supplementing the £342,500 a year pension my taxes help to pay for.

It wan't published.

  All of which shows Osborne's political nous. He could have saved money by removing the allowance from pensioners whose income was above a certain level. But that would have lent credence to the dangerous idea that the economic cuts should impinge on an individual in proportion to his means. That there was something unjust about the average joe having his modest salary frozen while the median total remuneration of FTSE 100 bosses rose by 8 per cent to £3.7 million. Instead the Chancellor played his Queen of Diamonds: the 'Europe' word. Instantly tens of millions of seemingly normal British citizens were turned into Manchurian Candidates, deprived of rational thought as, frothing at the mouth, they denounced the ex-pats sheltering in the bosom of the Anti-Christ's eurozone. 

  "Good boy, George. Job done," said the global financier, patting Osborne on the shoulder, before climbing aboard his limousine and disappearing into the distant shadows.

Keep right on to the end of the ...

I would categorise myself as a naive reader: rather than luxuriating in the writer's exquisite prose, my main motivation when I'm reading a novel is to find out what happens next. Consequently I've never been able to understand those readers - and I've taught a few - who turn to the last page of a book before beginning to read it. I would never have bothered reading Tom Jones or Great Expectations if I'd known the identity of Tom or Estella's parents before turning the first page.

   This doesn't mean, however, that a strong plot is necessary to my enjoyment. Reading Tristram Shandy or Ulysses solely for their plots would be a disappointing exercise, yet few books have brought me greater pleasure. Nor does it mean that a good novel doesn't bear re-reading even though you now know what happens. There will always be fresh discoveries to be made - but for me that first virginal encounter is essential.

   Yesterday I finished reading Margaret Mazzantini's Venuto al mondo. It took me a long time: I guess about three weeks to read the first half, and a day and a half to read the second. The problem with the first half of the book was that I thought the whole of the plot had been revealed by the end of the first couple of chapters. The thrice-married protagonist, Gemma, is sterile. However she has a son Pietro, fathered by her deceased second husband, Diego, on a surrogate mother. End of story.

   The novel begins in medias res and much of the first half is spent recounting her abortive attempts to conceive and, subsequently, to find a surrogate. In other words to fill in the details of what the reader already knew. I only persevered with the book because it was well written, but as a naive reader my heart wasn't in it.

   What I hadn't reckoned with was la Mazzantini's masterly use of the unreliable narrator. Suddenly, in a magnificent coup de theatre, all my assumptions were turned upside down as I realised that, in reality, I'd completely misunderstood what was happening. From there on, reading the book was no longer a chore but a race to the finish.

  There is an English translation, Twice Born, and if it does justice to the original I'd strongly recommend reading it. With one proviso: you need a strong stomach. Much of the novel is set during the siege of Sarajevo and la Mazzantini doesn't spare us the details. Earlier this year I read Alone in Berlin, Hans Fallada's grim account of life in war-time Berlin. It was deeply unsettling, but in comparison to la Mazzantini's Sarajevo it was like spending the weekend in a five star health spa.

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The EU's threat to freedom.

My wife returned home yesterday from the UK. Unlike her outward journey late last month which was delayed by seven hours, the trip went smoothly. Meanwhile, the oleaginous Lawson has added his not inconsiderable weight, figuratively if no longer literally, to the chorus demanding an immediate referendum on Britain's membership of the EU. Unsurprisingly his his beef with the EU is its perceived threat to the City, that same City whose deregulation under his Chancellorship in the eighties led, after an initial boom, to inflation rising from 3% to more than 8%, and interest rates doubling to 15% in the space of eighteen months. And we're all still living with the financial misery consequent on the banking industry's further deregulation in the first decade of the twenty-first century. How dare the EU attempt to restrict the bankers' freedom to line their own pockets at the expense of the rest of us!

  It's not only the City which is under attack. I tried to claim compensation from Ryan Air for my wife's delayed flight. Searching the web for advice, I was led to a site which supplied a claim form and advice on how to proceed. Guess who was guilty of this blatant attempt to restrict O'Leary's freedom to rip off the public? None other than that self- same EU.          

   Knowing that it was likely that Ryan Air would use 'extraordinary circumstances' as an escape clause, further searches led me to discover two cases - Wallentin-Hermann and Sturgeon - where the European Court of Justice ruled that technical problems with an aircraft did not constitute 'extraordinary circumstances' and found in favour of the plaintiffs. Yet more meddling by the EU - little wonder big business is doing its best to remove the UK from its clutches, using the Mail and Sun to misdirect the public's wrath, and fear of Ukip to pressurise the government.

   Needless to say, my two faxes to Ryan Air whilst receiving fairly prompt responses didn't produce any dosh. I'm fairly sure that if I could afford to take the company to court I'd win. But I can't;  and if I could, the £250 to which I'd be entitled would be so insignificant that I wouldn't bother.

   And that's the system the Mail, the Sun and Ukip have sold to the public - it's enough to make the angels weep.

Diamond Geezers.

I was delighted to read last week that Bob Diamond agrees with my analysis of what motivates CEOs: power rather than money. However, as he has no intention of handing back his ill-gotten gains, it merely demonstrates that although we don't need to pay them silly money, the greedy swine will trouser as much of it as they can persuade their corporate shareholders to give them.

   And he's not the only diamond-geezer to have made the headlines last week. I was astonished to read that Marina Hyde would happily have a pint with Nigel Farage because the other party leaders are 'pompous arses' whilst he doesn't take himself 'too seriously'. Personally, I find his perpetual smirk - the visual equivalent of William Haig's voice - merely makes me want to punch him.

  And silly people aren't harmless. I was told by a German colleague that Hitler had a rather comic accent. Since then I've imagined him announcing in a Brummy voice: "Roight, wheam gowin' to invoid Powland." Somehow, though, that doesn't make the consequent slaughter and mass-murder any less sickening.

  I doubt that Marina would want to have a drink with Nigel's Italian equivalent, the potty-mouthed Beppe Grillo:

if she dared to disagree with him he'd probably bite her. Or with many of the other rather unsavoury types who lead the anti-EU movements in their respective countries. Unlike Ukip voters, in Greece, Holland and Hungary the racists have come out of the closet.

   Meanwhile jolly Nigel, in Cameron's apt definition the leader of the 'fruit cakes and closet racists' - how surprising, incidentally, that the product of an ancient boarding school, where he was made to dress up in silly clothes every day, should have said something sensible for once - has declared that his movement will allow Britain to control its own destiny again.

  I'm not too sure how seceding from the EU will loosen Murdoch's, or globalised finance's grip on the politicians, but perhaps that's not what Nigel meant. Not having a nigger or a pollack as a neighbour's probably nearer the mark. I just hope the deluded souls who voted for him in probable ignorance of Ukip's economic policies will be happy to pay for their hospital treatment once it's been franchised to private companies. Nigel's Britain will certainly be a more equal society with everyone paying the same flat rate of tax - 31%. Great news if you're a millionaire, not quite such fun for the average earner.

  But, hey, don't get sucked in by the politics of envy; join jolly Nigel for a refreshing pint and a fag and face up to the fact that if you'd only aspired a little harder you too could have been a rich man. At least you can draw comfort from your white skin and, if you're one of the two million public sector workers whose jobs have just been scrapped, apply to join the armed forces. With a budget which has been increased by 40% they've probably got room for you. And if they haven't, the thought of their three new aircraft carriers, fifty additional Lightning jets, and four new subs armed with American nuclear missiles will help stiffen Nigel's ability to entertain Marina once he's walked her home!

Update 9th May.

The link in the penultimate paragraph no longer takes you to Ukip's site. Maybe too many people were discovering just how dangerously naive their policies were.  However, clicking here will provide you with a summary of the policies I alluded to in the previous two paragraphs.

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Reflections.

Swift famously remarked: "Satire is a sort of glass, wherein beholders do generally discover everybody's face but their own." On Thursday morning the Today programme held up a mirror in which, I confess with shame, I saw my pedantic self reflected.

    Sarah Montague was interviewing Tom Hodgkinson, editor of The Idler magazine, about The Bad Grammar Awards hosted by the The Idler Academy, a ceremony aiming, as its name suggests, to highlight examples of bad grammar. If you wish, you can listen to the interview though I wouldn't advise it: Hodgkinson has one of those whiney voices the Monty Python team was so fond of mimicking. As the following sentence taken from the transcript indicates, his own use of language left something to be desired: "It's a very good idea to train people into understanding their own language." "Train people into" - from which semi-literate Yankee-loving management consultant did he pick up that expression? Not having his notes with him, he had difficulty identifying the error in one of the examples of bad grammar he had brought with him - a London Underground announcement which made perfect sense, but which he castigated for 'mixing up a gerund and an infinitive.'

   As the interview progressed he found it increasingly difficult to string a coherent sentence together, thereby demonstrating his fundamental misunderstanding of what grammar is about - communication. Someone's grammar is only bad when it obscures his meaning. In my experience this rarely occurs in spoken English, non-verbal clues usually help to convey our message. Written English is a different kettle of fish, though even here any difficulty we find in understanding a writer's meaning is hardly ever the result of incorrect spelling or using an adjective where standard English requires an adverb. It comes from muddled syntax, and the muddled syntax is produced by muddled thought. When we're clear about what we want to say, we have no difficulty in writing it down. It's when the idea we want to express is complex, and we're not altogether sure that we've fully understood it, that we run into problems.

    All the same, the fact that Today interviewed a self-evident twerp to attack poor grammar is a pity. As readers of this blog will know, I think there is a case to be made for sharpening people's awareness of their use of language. The media's fondness for using idiots to defend or advocate unpopular causes would almost lead one to suppose that the unhinged Melanie Phillips had a point when she claimed on yesterday's Today programme that a successful left-wing conspiracy had marginalised any voices which ran counter to the 'prevailing liberal orthodoxy'. Only joking: just read the book she was promoting on the programme - the woman's clearly bonkers.

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The Beast Within.

Like most pet owners I anthropomorphise my dogs. In my fantasy world they are simply much younger, considerably  better-looking,  and infinitely more athletic versions of myself, sharing my interests and general attitude to life. But then, every now and again, reality breaks in: dogs are not human beings, they're semi-domesticated wolves - they are beasts.
  Yesterday morning when I took the dogs for their morning walk they chased a sickly cat and cornered it. Fortunately, as it had taken refuge in a bush on the edge of the footpath,  I was able to get the dogs on their leads and haul them off at some personal risk:  the bush was overhanging a precipice and in their continuing attempts to attack the cat they almost pulled me over the edge.
  This morning, walking down the same mediaeval pathway, I was suddenly aware of one dog's alto yelping, joined moments later by the other's contralto. I guessed it might be another attack on the cat but this time I couldn't see them. I left the footpath and started climbing through the thickets but failed to find them - although I could certainly hear them. Having called them in vain I walked back up the cliff until I reached the spot where it joins the road. I sat and read the paper on my phone for a quarter of an hour and then walked back down the cliff to the spot where they were continuing to yelp hysterically. Calling them still produced no results, so I went home and ate my breakfast. Returning once more, I realised that the barking had shifted location. They were now visible from the footpath and they had indeed cornered the same cat as yesterday. Then it broke free and ran into a bush by the side of the pathway. So once again I was able to haul them off. This time, to my horror, I noticed one dog's face and chest were covered with blood. Fortunately, a quick glance at the terrified cat revealed it was physically unscathed: the blood was the dog's own from where the cat had scratched her nose.
  So for almost an hour my dogs, my alter egos, had engaged in a bestial attack on another living creature, baiting it relentlessly. Not the sort of behaviour I would engage in, though it's common enough in the animal kingdom, including the species described below by an eighteenth-century traveller:

At last I beheld several animals in a field, and one or two of the same kind sitting in trees.  Their shape was very singular and deformed, which a little discomposed me, so that I lay down behind a thicket to observe them better.  Some of them coming forward near the place where I lay, gave me an opportunity of distinctly marking their form.  Their heads and breasts were covered with a thick hair, some frizzled, and others lank; they had beards like goats, and a long ridge of hair down their backs, and the fore parts of their legs and feet; but the rest of their bodies was bare, so that I might see their skins, which were of a brown buff colour.  They had no tails, nor any hair at all on their buttocks, except about the anus, which, I presume, nature had placed there to defend them as they sat on the ground, for this posture they used, as well as lying down, and often stood on their hind feet.  They climbed high trees as nimbly as a squirrel, for they had strong extended claws before and behind, terminating in sharp points, and hooked.  They would often spring, and bound, and leap, with prodigious agility.  The females were not so large as the males; they had long lank hair on their heads, but none on their faces, nor any thing more than a sort of down on the rest of their bodies, except about the anus and pudenda.  The dugs hung between their fore feet, and often reached almost to the ground as they walked.
   The hair of both sexes was of several colours, brown, red, black, and yellow.  Upon the whole, I never beheld, in all my travels, so disagreeable an animal, or one against which I naturally conceived so strong an antipathy.

To come clean: the first images which came into my mind when I listened to my dogs' unremitting bestial howling directed against a sickly cat were those pictures which came to light in 2004 of Iraqi prisoners cowering beneath the boots of their American captors, torturers and sexual abusers. To be followed by the images conjured up by yesterday's report of the sufferings of three British holidaymakers imprisoned in Dubai. And finally, of course, like Gulliver I have to face up to the truth about the identity of the animal he described above. I can't pretend like Grillo and his deluded followers that there are two sorts of people: decent folk like ourselves and an evil 'other'. As Nick Lowe wrote: 'The beast in me / Is caged by frail and fragile bars'.
   In the end, we're not so silly when we anthropomorphise our furry friends.

Humpty-Dumpty teaches Linguistics.

As any fule know, a word's meaning is dependent on its context. When we read that a carpenter is cleaning his plane we don't immediately picture a jolly artisan buffing up a Boeing 747 with an oily rag.  Similarly, when Tony Blair assured the nation that Saddam Hussein had acquired weapons of mass-destruction and was about to use them against the West, the picture which sprang into our minds was that on the left rather than the one on the right. 

  Last Tuesday, however, when Dzhokhar Tsarnaev was charged with using a weapon of mass destruction - a pressure cooker - we discovered that the Americans have once again rewritten the dictionary; and, taking their cue from Through the Looking-Glass,  perverted the way language works. “When I use a word,' Humpty Dumpty said in rather a scornful tone, 'it means just what I choose it to mean—neither more nor less.” 

   Despite what Humpyty-Dumpty and his disciple, US attorney general Eric Holder, would have us believe, a pressure-cooker is not a weapon of mass-destruction. It is a household appliance. Like almost any artefact it can be used  to inflict injury. In common with many otherwise useful machines - the motor-car  springs to mind - it can be misused to kill a number of people simultaneously. But that does not make it a weapon of mass-destruction, merely an object used to inflict mass-destruction. For the term 'weapon' refers to an object designed to have the sole function of inflicting injury: a gun, a cosh, a stiletto. Other objects - baseball bats, kitchen knives - are frequently used as weapons, but to simply call  them weapons would be absurd. Jamie Oliver no more handles weapons in his kitchen than Babe Ruth handled one at the Yankee Stadium. 

   Again context is crucial. If a friend told you that she'd gone to John Lewis to buy some luggage one would expect her to return with a suitcase rather than a carrier bag. However, if the same friend turned up at to stay at one's house and, pointing to the carrier-bag she was carrying, said, 'That's all the luggage I've brought', one wouldn't be puzzled. For the context would indicate the understood qualifier: 'in place of a suitcase'. This does not however mean that deprived of its original context it would make sense for us to report to others that she'd arrived with a single piece of luggage: they would immediately picture a suitcase. Instead we'd say, 'She turned up with just a carrier-bag'. So, why didn't the Attorney-General avoid abusing the English language and charge Tsarnaev with using a pressure-cooker as a weapon of mass-destructon?
   Perhaps it's because - as New Thump pointed out the other day -  if pressure-cookers are weapons of mass-destruction Tony Blair was telling the truth about Iraq after all!

Rifts in the Net.

There are many myths about the World Wide Web or Net, prominent amongst them the belief that it is a neutral vehicle for sharing information and opinions. A fallacious belief as the Chinese government has recently demonstrated by forcing Google to restrict the sites available in the People's Republic. Furthermore, Google has recently introduced Search History Personalisation, a system designed to deliver results tailored to an individual's interests as indicated by his previous searches. Today I discovered matters go much deeper than this. To explain.

   In his reply to a eurosceptic reader's letter in the Corriere della Sera, the readers' editor, Sergio Romano, alluded to an EU document which claims that EU functionaries provide better value for money than their Westminster counterparts: 

"Agli inizi di quest'anno il Parlamento europeo ha tirato una stoccata agli inglesi con un rapporto comparativo in cui si afferma che i funzionari della Commissione lavorano di più, versano un contributo più elevato al loro fondo di previdenza e sono pagati un po' meno di quelli del Regno Unito." (At the beginning of this year the European Parliament scored a hit against the English [eurosceptics] with a report which affirmed that the European Commission's officials work longer hours, pay higher social insurance contributions, and are paid less than their Westminster counterparts.)

As a europhile I was eager to read the document and searched Google UK to find it. To my surprise I could find no trace of it, only the usual Mail and Telegraph anti-EU diatribes. However, translating the search terms into Italian and putting them into Google Italia immediately produced the relevant hit:

http://www.europarl.europa.eu/news/it/headlines/content/20121211FCS04528/8/html/Funzionari-Meglio-europei-o-inglesi

All of which suggests that, rather than creating an international community, the Net cocoons us safely in our national comfort zones. An Englishman is protected from ever having to read anything which might disturb his xenophobic prejudices. So whilst in reality millions of English men and women don't conform to the eurosceptic stereotype, Big Brother Google has decided that their interests can be ignored in favour of the views of the majority of their compatriots. Pretty worrying, don't you think?

So let it be with Caesar.

For those of us lefties who were adults during that grete angur and unhappe of the Thatcher  years the News has been a no-go area for the past week, swamped as it has been by accounts of her time in office, reports of international reaction to her death and hagiographic tributes from former colleagues. And all this will be capped by - in all but name - a state funeral next Wednesday.
  I wondered why the demise of this elderly semi-alcoholic alzheimer sufferer should engender quite so much attention. Her death changes nothing: we may have lost the woman but her legacy is all around us in a de-industrialised Britain, an unregulated City, a rapidly disappearing NHS, under-financed public services,  the yawning chasm between the income of ordinary, honest workers and that of the tax-avoiding incompetents who help themselves to massive unwarranted bonuses and pensions paid for by the taxpayer, and the xenophobia remorselessly drip-fed into their readers by the Sun and the Mail. An article by Jonathan Freedland in Tuesday's Guardian enlightened me:

'The wider Tory tribe seems determined to use the nine-day limbo between her passing and her funeral to define Thatcher in death in a way that would have seemed impossible, if not outright absurd, in life: as above and beyond politics, as a national rather than partisan figure, as an incontestable and uncontested part of our collective inheritance.'

Freedland also reports Lord Powell's claim that Thatcher would have been disappointed if there hadn't been people figuratively dancing on her grave. And one can understand why. Channelling people's anger into self-satisfying but futile protests is a classic diversionary tactic. As Mark Antony said apropos of Caesar: "The evil that men do lives after them ..." It's Thatcher's evil legacy that people need to fight not the woman herself.
  I have always had some sympathy for apokatastasis, the heresy commonly - though possibly erroneously - associated with Origen. It teaches that everyone, including Satan himself, will ultimately be saved. One could argue that no one is totally bad - Hitler was very fond of his dog Blondi. Hardly outweighs murdering six million Jews, but could be something to build on. Thatcher, despite her euroscepticism, did physically reconnect Britain with the mainland for the first time since the last ice-age. Though she may have been more concerned with its oil-fields than with its people's liberty, she was quite right to defend the Falklands. The islands may be nearer to the Argentine than to the UK, but 1521.39 kilometres is still a heck of a long way. If the Argentinian criterion for exercising sovereignty were universally applied we'd have instant European political unity. The Italians could claim that the Angles, Saxons, Germans, Goths, Vandals etc are all illegally occupying the territory of the Roman Empire and should subject themselves to the Pax Romana forthwith.
   Sadly, whilst slightly more creditable than liking a dog, Thatcher's two positive achievements hardly counterbalance the enormous harm her legacy continues to inflict. As Romano Prodi commented last Tuesday she:

 'cambiato il mondo', ma la sua rivoluzione liberista ha portato 'all'aumento delle differenze fra ricchi e poveri' ed ha 'certamente aiutato e forse provocato' la crisi economica mondiale [changed the world, but her revolutionary introduction of economic Liberalism has brought about an increase in the gap between the rich and poor and has certainly helped, and possibly provoked, the global economic crisis].

Unfortunately, not only did Prodi's remarks attract a lot of negative comment from the Twitter-sphere - the refuge of those who, incapable of formulating an argument, imagine a badly expressed opinion is an acceptable alternative  - but the Corriere della Sera, Italy's equivalent of the Guardian, has carried articles broadly supportive of her policies. That does worry me. The German dog-lover's legacy was destroyed by the Red Army and the western allies. His ideals only live on in the minds of a tiny minority of brutish morons. Would that the same could be said for those of the Iron Lady.