Quintin Jardine's blog

From the moment of his appointment, I’ve thought there was something odd about the current Archbishop of Canterbury. Indeed, I see him as a curse cast upon the Church of England by Tony Blair, who, having done so, promptly buggered off to become a Catholic. There is nothing right about Dr Rowan Williams, least of all his politics. For openers he is an adherent of two religions, the other being druidism. You’ve heard of the anti-Christ? Then the A of C has to be the anti-Anglican; someone should check under his cassock for cloven hooves.

He is also, it seems, an idiot, if today’s Financial Times is anything to go by. He wants the government to sign up to a new European impost on financial transactions, named the Tobin Tax after its economist inventor, but labelled already by the media as ‘The Robin Hood Tax’. There is precious little under Dr Williams’ hood if he does not see  the iniquity of such a measure.

The proposal is that it will be levied on the sale of shares, bonds and foreign currency, raising envisaged billions to be invested in the developing world. The reality is that it will be passed on by financial institutions to their customers, people with equity based pension funds and other investments intended for their retirement, and people who need a few hundred euro, US dollars or other currency for holidays or other trips abroad. The irony is that it is being proposed by the geniuses who have led the eurozone into its present parlous state. Its effect will be to pillage the savings of ordinary people who have worked damn hard to build up some meagre resources; yes, folks people like you and me. And what are the chances of any of this stolen money going anywhere near the developing world? Slim and none, and Slim’s already left town. No, it would go to shore up the euro. Simples.

What has brought on this latest rush of blood to what is left of Dr Williams’ head? The sight, it seems, of a few screwballs in tents camped around St Paul’s Cathedral, a public outrage that instead of condemning, he is tolerating and even encouraging. But that should surprise nobody. Recently, England’s senior cleric accused the government of committing Britain to ‘radical, long-term policies for which no-one voted’. Actually many people did, but I do not recall Church of England members voting for him. Indeed I suspect that if they were offered a referendum on his fitness for office, the druid archbishop would soon find himself banished to a Welsh hill-top, condemned to watch endless reruns of ‘The Wicker Man‘.

Today, I had occasion to call NHS 24, a new experience for me. I’d no idea what to expect. I suppose it’s fair to say that I was a bit cynical about the idea of a health call centre. Not any more. The problem was dealt with very quickly and an appointment was made for us at our nearest out-patient centre, within 90 minutes. I’ve sat in our local surgery for almost as long as that waiting to be seen. We got there on time, and were diagnosed and treated within 15 minutes. It’s good to know the system works.

Back in Gullane, and as the wonderful Kim MacArthur is fond of saying, Happy to be Here. However . . .

Funny the things that tick one off: I was out in the car this morning en  route for Haddington. Approaching Ballencrieff I saw a permanent road sign warning me that there was mud on the road. There always is, when it’s remotely wet, as it always is, so I’m wondering why East Lothian Council, as well as installing their helpful sign, don’t take action to ensure that the farmer who makes a mess of the public highway, accepts responsibility for hosing the bloody mud off!

I’m happy to hear that you enjoyed Xavi’s ghosted autobiography. No way is the big geezer going to be lured back to Edinburgh, that’s for sure. However his mate Skinner has a place in Spain, which he’s been neglecting of late. It’s not impossible that the two of them will meet up over there

Just seen the greatest interview disaster of all time on BBC News channel, when Simon McCoy, the presenter, attempted to grill/Paxmanise, Sir Martin Sorrell, founder and head of the marketing giant WPP, as part of a highly slanted presentation that the Beeb is running today on directors’ remuneration. Sir Martin is one of the smartest men in the world, as poor old Simon found out when his ‘victim’ demolished his case with his first answer then took him to places he’d never been, and fired information at him that might have been part of his briefing but wasn’t. After several minutes of not getting a word in, Simon said, ‘I’m sorry but we have to go to the weather now. If I come back to you in five minutes will you still be there?’ Smile by Sir Martin; ‘Probably not.’ Wonderful.

I was 1) surprised, 2) bewildered, 3) annoyed 4) blazing angry this morning when I read a BBC report that the NHS in England is to review the evidence for breast cancer screening, following the publication of a questionable analysis into its efficacy by the Danish-based independent Nordic Cochrane Research Centre, and the publicly announced refusal by an academic of screening, on the grounds that she is concerned about the effects of over-diagnosis. I can only assume that Professor Susan Bewley believes that under-diagnosis would be better. She heads the department of complex obstetrics at King’s College, London, but I don’t find anything complex about the issues involved, and can only wonder why she’s trying to start a bandwagon rolling.

I’m going to declare an interest here. A few years ago, my wife went for a routine screening mammogram. It showed an anomaly, and she was asked to go back for further investigation. This revealed the presence of a very small tumour. It was removed almost immediately, there were no metastases, and, happily there’s been no recurrence. The incident was dealt with so effectively that when I happened to mention the subject in another context a few days ago, it took her a few seconds to recall that she was a cancer survivor herself.

If the screening programme wasn’t in place, that tiny tumour wouldn’t have been detected until it was a large tumour, her surgery would have been much more radical, and she’d have undergone debilitating and  destructive follow-up therapy. I don’t like to consider what the outcome might have been. Hers is just one case among thousands of success stories for the breast screening programme. Like every woman, she had the right to decline her mammogram. Professor Susan Bewley had that right and exercised it. But in my opinion, she does not have the right to use her academic position to undermine public confidence in the programme, if by doing so she might deter even a single woman from going for screening and thus allowing a treatable tumour to go undetected until it’s too late.

As for the Nordic Cochrane Research Centre, the brief research I’ve done on it myself makes me wonder whether it might be to general medicine what the Church of Scientology is to the treatment of mental illness. It can play with numbers all it likes, but it can’t be allowed to play with lives. Any time spent by the NHS reviewing its allegations will be time wasted. Time is money. If that money is available, it should be invested in enhancing existing screening, not questioning it.

My friends will tell you that I am a long way short of being a Christian fundamentalist. These days I’m only in churches for weddings and funerals. However, I believe that the right of worship is fundamental to all faiths and that it is intolerable that the right of access to any church, mosque, synagogue, etc,  should be blocked wilfully by any individual or group, whatever their cause.

That’s why I’m more than mildly appalled that St Paul’s Cathedral was closed to worshippers yesterday and remains closed today, because a crowd of  posh anarchists, sundry attention seekers,  and general toss-pots have chosen to mass around it in their silly little tents, for a reason which has nothing to do with God and is purely mammon-based. They seem to be trying to make their point by hi-jacking a symbolic building. But why St Paul’s? If they really want to draw attention to the focus of their campaign why aren’t they camped outside the equally iconic Bank of England, or better still Harrods?

The biggest ‘Why?’ of all of course is ‘Why are they still there?’ If they were parked outside the London Stock Exchange itself, just round the corner . . . and they do call their campaign ‘Occupy LSX’ . . . or outside one of those other institutions, they’d have been hosed off the street by now, you can be sure of that. So why are the Met treating them so leniently where they are? Do they think they have a right of sanctuary, or is the LSX more important than Jesus?

Hi, Norah. I’m not surprised your memory is vague; that happened a long time back. The book you’re trying to recall is ‘Skinner’s Ordeal’. Your next Skinner fix will be next June, and the title to look out for is ‘Funeral Note‘.

Thanks friend. There are actually three Primavera (She doesn’t use the short form any more) books in the pipeline. The next will appear in January, title, ‘As Easy as Murder‘. It’s been so long since I delivered it, I have trouble remembering that.

Are there going to be any more Bob Skinner books? As many as I can write, mate.

No mobile signal in Humbie? Haven’t you seen the booster mast? It’s similar to the one in Dirleton.

I know, I haven’t been posting on the blog for a while. Regular visitors will realise why; newcomers please understand it isn’t indifference but a sign that I’m up to my ears in a project. In this case, it’s Primavera Four. (No, don’t ask me what it’s called, as I still have to make a final decision on that.”)

A man goes to see the Rabbi. “Rabbi, something terrible is happening and I have to talk to you about it.”
The Rabbi asked, “What’s wrong?”
The man replied, “My wife is poisoning me.”
The Rabbi, very surprised by this, asks, “How can that be?”
The man then pleads, “I’m telling you, I’m certain she’s poisoning me, what should I do?”
The Rabbi then offers, “Tell you what. Let me talk to
her, I’ll see what I can find out and I’ll let you know.”
A week later the Rabbi calls the man and says, “Well, I spoke to your wife.. I spoke to her on the phone for three hours.
You want my advice?”
The man said yes and the Rabbi replied,
“Take the poison.”

I finally got round to watching Sunday’s Spooks last night. Only four more episodes to go until the end of a brave, innovative and enthralling series. From the very beginning its writers have had a reputation for unpredictability and for not giving major characters an easy ride. Over ten years, quite a few of them have made early and fatal exits, Adam for example, poor old Colin for another, and as for Ros Myers she died twice. However some have been allowed to leave in one piece. Zoe was sent off to a new life in South America, Tom was decommissioned after showing signs of a conscience, Tessa was exposed as a fraudster, Malcolm went off to  happy retirement, Sam, Beth and Jed just left, while Jools was reassigned to America where he reappeared in deep cover as the star of the mega-successful medical drama House.

(Only one remains unaccounted for, the mad Juliet, who disappeared to parts unknown after being exposed as an arch-traitor. With mystery hanging over the identity of the person who seems out to destroy MI5, I wonder, have we really seen the last of her?)

However through the saga there is one group whose fate seems to have been inevitable. Those who have joined the Grid, and have been Afro-Caribbean, of sub-Continental ancestry, or of mixed race, to be specific, Danny, Zafar, Ben and Tariq, have all left the scene in very terminal ways, one shot, one tortured to death, one from having his throat cut by a traitor colleague, and another poisoned by an assassin who we are meant to assume was Russian, thanks to a crude reference earlier in the episode, but who probably wasn’t. After the media-inspired outrage over the exclusively white population of the  collection of villages in Midsomer Murders, I’m surprised that none of our righteous media outlets have hit on this, not least since Kudos, the series creator company, is now part of the Shine group, which is itself now owned, more than a little controversially, by none other than Mr Murdoch’s News Corporation.

Just seen a woman on Breakfast, one Kathy Lette, do for women’s fiction what Jack the Ripper did for streetwalking in Whitechapel. She may be a capable and successful author, but she is NOT Ruby Wax and someone should tell her.

Spent the last part of my lunchbreak listening on my iPod to my all-time favourite Rolling Stones album. Which one’s that? Stripped. What’s yours?

The Boss and I have just been for lunch to Vaive, Phillipe and Theresa’s snack bar on El Riuet beach, just beyond St Marti d’ Empuries, a favourite howff aso of Primavera Blackstone and her son Tom, now eleven years old, and growing fast. He will tell you in a voice of authority, and I agree with him, that Theresa’s chicken-pig is the best damn sandwich in town. Half a loaf crammed with chicken, bacon, letttuce and salsa, and I’m sure Theresa would do a kosher version if required. Hurry up if you want one, though; they’re likely to close for the season at the end of this week.

Did you do anything else on holiday ohter than read The Loner and Grievous Angel? I hope you get on with Oz. He can be a difficult sod.

? Is Christine Lagarde on a power trip, or does she simply like the sound of her own voice?

Good news. After being nagged by many people for many years, John Pallares is going to have a shot at keeping La Clota open into the winter, from Thursday (Paella night) then through to Sunday lunchtime. He’ll run it to the end of October and see how it goes. Consider this advertising, folks.