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Gentle Reader, picture if you will a Sunday morning upon which a British Deputy Prime Minister rings the second most powerful man in the American Colonies to inform him, with measured politeness, that he is wrong. Not misguided. Not misinformed. Wrong. It is the sort of telephone call that one imagines requires a great deal of tea beforehand and perhaps something stronger afterwards.
The matter concerns the tragic murder of Henry Nowak, an eighteen-year-old student stabbed last December in Southampton by Vickrum Digwa – a British-born man who falsely claimed racial abuse as justification for the attack and was subsequently jailed for life. Lord Vance of the Colonies, posting to Elon’s Lair on Friday, pronounced that Nowak had died “the same way a civilisation dies” and blamed the killing on the “mass invasion of migrants.” One small difficulty with this stirring rhetoric: Digwa was born in the United Kingdom. This Author notes that even the most dramatic of speeches ought to consult the facts first. Deputy Prime Minister David Lammy, to his considerable credit, rang Lord Vance of the Colonies on Saturday, told him he was wrong, reminded him that Nowak’s own family had called for calm, and described the subsequent exchange as “agreeable” – which, in diplomatic terms, may cover a multitude of firmly expressed opinions. The pair remain, apparently, colleagues. How very civilised of them both.
From one awkward telephone call to the rather more embarrassing silence of a missing document. The Defence Investment Plan, which was promised for last autumn, remains as elusive as a satisfactory explanation from anyone in the corridors of power. The Public Accounts Committee has now declared that the Kingdom has gone “years without a credible plan for UK military capability,” which is the sort of verdict that ought to sting. Sir Clifton-Brown, chairing the committee with evident exasperation, has suggested ministers “simply apologise” rather than explaining that they are merely taking their time to get the details right. This Author has heard that excuse applied to overdue letters, late dinners, and unreturned library books – but rarely to the defence of an entire nation. Meanwhile, Lord Healey has assured the Grand Assembly that Lord Starmer is “determined to publish” the plan ahead of the NATO summit in July. Determined is a fine word. Published would be a finer one.
Speaking of Lord Starmer: he has this Sunday apparently hardened his position with the resolve of a man who has been told, once too often, to leave the party early. After Lord Burnham, the Greater Manchester Mayor, indicated he would enter any potential leadership contest, the Prime Minister informed his supporters that he would fight any such challenge. Lord Streeting has already declared himself ready. Lord Burnham must first win the Makerfield by-election on the eighteenth of June merely to be eligible to stand – which means the whole elaborate drama depends upon a single constituency in Lancashire voting in the correct fashion. This Author has attended soirées with less complicated seating arrangements. Lord Starmer, armed with the memory of a “massive majority two years ago,” appears determined to remind everyone of it. Whether the membership shares his fond recollection remains the question of the season.
This Author turns now to a story that has shaken her faith in the noble institution of the kebab. Kismet Kebabs Ltd, an Essex concern supplying establishments across the land, has been fined five hundred thousand pounds by Swansea Crown Court for selling “lamb” that was, in the court’s own precise language, “mostly skin and fat.” The company, it emerged, routinely purchased goat, lamb fat, mutton, and mechanically reclaimed meat products, processed them cheerfully, and dispatched them labelled as lamb to unsuspecting wholesalers, restaurateurs, and hungry members of the public. The judge found “considerable dishonesty over a prolonged period,” which is the juridical equivalent of saying that Kismet knew perfectly well what it was doing and did it anyway, for years, with enthusiasm. This Author does not know whether to be outraged on behalf of the consumers or faintly impressed by the audacity. She settles, on reflection, for outraged.
Finally, a more agreeable dispatch – a wedding. Peter Phillips, nephew of His Majesty the King and son of the Princess Royal, married National Health Society nurse Harriet Sperling on Saturday in a private ceremony at All Saints Church in Kemble, Gloucestershire. The Prince of Wales and Princess of Wales were among those in attendance. The bride, forty-five, is by all accounts a woman of admirable practicality – a working nurse who has written publicly of her experiences as a single mother. That she should enter a royal adjacent family having met her future husband at a children’s sporting event, and having accompanied His Majesty in the Royal Ascot carriage procession, is the sort of ascent that would make even the most jaded society columnist reach for her smelling salts in pleasurable astonishment. This Author wishes them every happiness, and notes with approval that at least one story today has arrived without a missing document, a disputed telephone call, or fraudulent mutton.
I am, as ever, your most devoted observer – Lady Whistledown.