Two years ago Martin Newland did a cover story for this magazine headlined “Why England Is Rotting.” He cited many statistics: Britain has the highest proportion of single mothers in Europe; the highest cocaine use; the highest rate of sexually transmitted disease; London has more violent crime than New York and Istanbul. From personal observation, an alarming number of the men on its streets seem to affect the appearance of the bad guys’ crew in Pirates of the Caribbean. At about 2 p.m. on a recent Wednesday afternoon, in order to enter a convenience store, I was obliged to step over a 13-year-old dressed like a trollop and collapsed in her own vomit. But don’t worry, the government is taking action: in order to facilitate safer binge drinking, police recently announced that they would be handing out free flip-flops outside nightclubs in order to help paralytic dolly birds stagger home without stumbling in their high heels and falling into the gutter. Every day Fleet Street generates a bewildering number of foot-of-page-37 news items that seem to belong to some vast ongoing dystopian satire: stabbings are so rampant in British schoolyards that a company that specializes in military body armour is now manufacturing school blazers lined with stab-resistant Kevlar.
It’s hardly surprising that a coarsened world produces a coarsened culture, or even that the fruits of heavy-handed feminism and political correctness should be a nation of 12-year- old booze-sodden tarts and middle-aged blokes jerking off at BBC licence-payer expense. I wrote a few weeks back that an increase in sexual liberty had provided a cover for the shrinking of all other kinds. Likewise, if you can make jokes about the Queen’s pussy, why surely you are freer than your forebears. And it’s true that, say, a North Korean stand-up would be ill-advised to proffer jests about Kim Jong-Il’s meat-and-two-veg. But licence is not the same as liberty. And the British nanny state’s rearing of a generation of snarling, brutish, eternally arrested adolescents slumped in Hogarthian depravity seems not an unfortunate side effect but an all too foreseeable consequence. The BBC’s motto is “Nation shall speak peace unto nation.” Not in prime time. As David Cameron might say, nation shall speak pissed unto nation.













