War in Afghanistan was not Tony Blair’s fault, argues ANN WIDDECOMBE
WHY so much resentment at Tony Blair’s being invited to a commemoration service for those killed in Afghanistan?
The problem seems to be that the public regularly conflates that war with the one in Iraq, about which there are legitimate doubts, but in fact we had no choice but to take up arms against the Taliban.
The very essence of the Nato treaty is that if one member country is attacked in its homeland then all member countries consider themselves to have been attacked.
That was how we were able to shelter behind the USA throughout the cold war because the Soviet Union knew that if it invaded, say, West Germany then the other super-power would consider that it had attacked New York and retaliate accordingly.
Then on 9/11 New York was attacked by Bin Laden and therefore every Nato country considered itself to have been so. As far as the treaty was concerned Paris, Berlin and London had been hit as surely as the twin towers.
The war was a Nato war not just an American one and nearly all Nato countries experienced casualties. Denmark, for example, sent 9,500 personnel and suffered 43 fatalities with 214 wounded.
Canada lost 157, France and Germany over 140 between them and even countries which joined Nato after 9/11 suffered some deaths.
TONY Blair was the Prime Minister at the time and so has every right to be at the commemoration. There was no conscription and soldiers died because they were brave enough and patriotic enough to have joined the army.
There is no “blood on his hands” from Afghanistan. For the avoidance of doubt none of the above means that I admire Tony Blair. I don’t. He is greedy beyond belief, manipulative and led one of the most dishonest governments most of us can remember.
But none of that is an argument for his not being invited to the commemoration of a valid war against a dangerous foe.
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The Nato treaty is that if one member country is attacked in its homeland then all member countries consider themselves to have been attacked.
WHEN did everybody become so over-sensitive? For years editors of magazines have delighted in showing snaps of people reading them in unlikely places. I am always hugely pleased if I spot a copy of any of my books on a car seat or somebody reading one on a tube or train.
Yet when an editor of Vogue spotted a homeless person reading the magazine and took a photo, above, she was condemned as heartless and “mocking”. Inevitably she has now apologised.
What her critics appear to be saying is that it is OK for the better off to have a copy of Vogue under their arms when they buy their Mulberry handbags but that the impoverished should stick to something less fancy. Really? If anything is heartless that is.
Then Nicky Morgan, the Education Secretary, whom I used to admire, whines that a Labour member called her “love”. Apparently that is sexist.
What a pathetic lot of moaners Brits are becoming, taking offence at the drop of a hat, humourlessly grievancemongering at every turn and scowling when they should be smiling. Laugh, girls, laugh.
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THERE comes a time when, no matter how brutal fate has been, one must accept what has happened and move on.
Thus it must be with the relatives of those lost in the MH370 air mystery. The Australian prime minister has rightly suggested that after a year of fruitless searching the hunt must now be wound up but the relatives want it to go on for ever. That is utterly natural and also utterly unrealistic.
This is one mystery that will probably only be solved by accident some time in the future. It is horrible and the desire for closure must be overwhelming but sometimes closure does not involve certainty.
Suzy Lamplugh, the London estate agent kidnapped and presumed murdered, was never found. Nor was the body of little Keith Bennet, one of Brady and Hindley’s victims. Ben Needham who disappeared at the age of two in Greece has not been seen since.
Every year people go missing and relatives have no idea where they are or what has happened. It is bad enough when a pet goes astray and never returns. When it is a human the pain is all but unbearable.
Sadly, however, it happens and it has happened in the case of MH370. The Australians are right to call time.
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UNDER government proposals, teachers who barely have time to impart the three Rs are going to be required to discuss rape with 11-year-olds, including such salubrious scenarios as the morning after having sex while drunk.
I can see some sense in older children being asked to consider such eventualities but none at all for an 11-year-old. Despite having the highest teen pregnancy rate in the Western World we still seem obsessed in this country with teaching young people that casual sex is the norm.
We tell them how to do it and then make sure they can hide the consequences from their parents, who can be excluded from vital moral and medical decisions such as the prescription of contraception and the provision of abortion.
Where Matron used to keep a packet of plasters and a bottle of aspirin she now keeps a packet of condoms and the morning after pill. Of course parents don’t help when they send their children to school dressed as Christian Grey, equipped with cables, as part of Book Day.
Worse, that particular parent is also a primary school teacher. The protection of children was once a sacred duty but these days nobody much over the age of seven seems to be classifi ed as a child. Britain is blooming, with daffodils and crocuses at last pushing up through the earth.
Ewes are lambing and on Saturday much of the country was actually hot. In a couple of weeks the clocks go forward. It is a time for optimism, a reminder that no winter whether literal or metaphorical lasts for ever.
There is always a Spring waiting just beneath the snow.
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ALONG with millions of others I tuned into Poldark at the weekend. I admit I had doubts because I remembered the first version with so much affection but I was soon engrossed and yes, so far at least, this appears a better production.
Sadly Poldark was preceded by the last episode in Call the Midwife and we will have to wait another year before rejoining the nuns and midwives of Nonatus House.
This series which could have slipped into sentimentality has stayed firmly realistic and a particularly happy moment turned dark when an innocent doctor told his patient that the magic ingredient in the medicine which had worked so well was called Thalidomide.
I just wish the BBC would spend more of the licence fee in this manner and less on soaps, vulgarity and Left-wing propaganda.
