The Far Right's Christian Values

There is a certain type of political bore who bangs on about "Christian values" as if he has just returned from a personal briefing with the Almighty, when in fact the last time he crossed a church threshold was for a wedding buffet and a quick moan about the parking. He likes to present the far right as the last line of defence for Christian civilisation, all solemn duty and moral backbone. The trouble is that the evidence says otherwise, which is always awkward when a whole identity has been built on sounding certain in the comments section.

Across Western Europe, researchers have found no positive relationship between religiosity and voting for populist radical right parties. None. In some cases, regular church attendance is linked to lower support. Practising Christians are often under-represented among far-right voters. So the grand army of churchgoing patriots exists mostly in the imagination of men with flags in their profile pictures and very little else going on. The people actually sitting in pews every Sunday are apparently not queuing up for the politics of grievance and scapegoating.

This does rather spoil the theatrical nonsense. Because the far right absolutely loves Christianity, provided it can be kept safely at the level of branding. It likes churches as scenery, not as institutions full of inconvenient teachings about loving thy neighbour, showing mercy, feeding the poor and generally behaving in a way that makes xenophobic ranting look a bit cheap. Christianity, in this mode, is not a faith. It is a badge. A logo. A bit of heritage trim bolted onto a rather nasty machine.

And that is the real joke in all this. The loudest defenders of "Christian civilisation" are very often not defending Christianity at all. They are defending a tribal identity dressed up in religious language. They want the architecture, the hymns at Christmas, the vague sense of civilisational superiority, and none of the moral obligations. It is Christianity with the engine removed and the bonnet polished. All showroom shine, no mechanical content.

Political scientists even have a name for the mismatch - the "religion gap". Far-right parties talk incessantly about Christianity, yet practising Christians tend not to flock to them. One explanation is almost comically simple. If you actually belong to a church, you are more likely to be embedded in a real community, exposed to actual moral teaching, and less susceptible to the sort of bilious nonsense that blames foreigners, liberals, Muslims or Brussels for every irritation from potholes to damp weather. It turns out that meeting actual human beings may be bad for ideological hysteria. Who knew.

So when some chap starts droning on about how the far right is the natural home of Christian Europe, what he usually means is that he likes the cultural packaging. He likes crosses on war memorials, nativity scenes, old cathedrals and the general smell of inherited legitimacy. He does not mean he is off to evensong, helping at the food bank, or wrestling seriously with the Sermon on the Mount. That would be a different matter entirely, and a good deal less useful to the politics of permanent resentment.

In short, the far right does not so much represent Christianity as cosplay it. It borrows the costume, waves the props about, and hopes nobody notices that the congregation has gone elsewhere. Which, according to the research, it largely has. The whole thing is a bit like one of those "fully restored" classics advertised by an optimist. Lovely paint, sparkling badges, a lot of talk about heritage, and underneath it all, not much evidence that anyone has opened the bonnet in years.

Sources include comparative research published in Party Politics on Western Europe, LSE analysis of the "religion gap", and European Social Survey-based work in Social Science Research showing Christians are often less likely to back the populist radical right.

But it's Our Oil

It’s funny how quickly the North Sea turns into this mythical national piggy bank whenever there’s a wobble in the Middle East.

You hear it all the time. “Our oil.” “Our profits.” As if there’s a great big tap marked “Treasury” somewhere off Aberdeen and all we need to do is turn it a bit harder. In reality it’s private companies pulling it out, selling it at global prices, and the UK getting a cut via tax when there are profits to tax. Some years that’s decent. Some years it’s not. And when things wind down, we even help pay to tidy the whole lot away again. It’s a business, not a dividend account.

Then along comes a crisis like Iran and suddenly the answer, apparently, is to issue more licences.

Which is where it starts to get a bit surreal. The price spike you’re dealing with is happening now, this quarter, this winter if you’re unlucky. A new North Sea field will be ready years down the line, long after this particular panic has passed. Even the quicker option, tying a small find into existing kit, still takes time. So as a response to a short sharp shock, it’s like ordering a new garage because you’ve run out of petrol on the drive.

There is a more serious point buried in there about imports. Yes, the UK is becoming more reliant on them. Yes, global markets can be jumpy, and occasionally properly nasty. But drilling more here doesn’t magically give you cheap British oil. It still sells at the same global price, so you might improve the trade balance a bit, keep some jobs going and slow the decline, but you have not insulated yourself from the next spike.

And this is the bit that rarely gets mentioned. The UK electricity market is set up so that gas effectively sets the price for everything. So when gas spikes, everything spikes, regardless of how much cheaper power is on the system. Even the government is now looking at breaking that link. Which rather undermines the idea that drilling a bit more in the North Sea somehow shields us from global markets.

And then there’s the small matter of who benefits from all this urgency. Oil companies are hardly going to object to new licences. It keeps the pipeline of work going for the next 20 or 30 years, from rigs to engineers to contractors, the whole ecosystem ticking over nicely. That is entirely rational from their point of view, but it does mean their version of “energy security” comes with a fairly obvious commercial incentive attached.

The war angle does raise a more interesting question, though. If you actually wanted to knock the UK’s energy system sideways, what would you hit.

Oil and gas are quite neat targets. A handful of big bits of kit, pipelines, terminals, import facilities. Take out a few of those and you feel it very quickly, especially with gas where we don’t keep much lying around. It’s efficient, but it’s not exactly forgiving. And if you hit one properly, you are not talking about a quick tidy up. You are into months at best, and in the worst case years, because you are rebuilding large, specialised, safety critical infrastructure.

Renewables are messier. Wind farms scattered about, solar all over the place, bits of generation here, there and everywhere. Knock one out and the lights stay on. You’d have to go after lots of them to make a dent. And even then, the kit is modular. Panels, inverters, cabling, much of it can be swapped out in weeks rather than years. The weak points sit more in the grid itself, substations and transmission nodes that matter whatever is generating the power, which rather underlines that the vulnerability is in the system, not just the source.

So the problem being exposed here isn’t really “we haven’t drilled enough holes in the North Sea”. It’s that we’re still tied to fuels traded in markets we don’t control, moving through infrastructure that can be disrupted, and priced in a way that lands straight on the doorstep.

Which brings you back to the licensing debate. If the problem is a price spike now, licences don’t help. If the problem is long term exposure to volatile fossil markets, doubling down on them is a slightly odd cure. If the problem is managing decline sensibly over the next couple of decades, then fine, talk about existing fields and nearby tie backs and be honest about what that does and doesn’t achieve.

But presenting a 10 year project as an answer to a short term crisis is not strategy. It’s just something that sounds busy while everyone else is watching the oil price.

When You Can't Trust the Leader of the Free World

There’s something faintly ridiculous about the position I find myself in, and I suspect I’m not alone in it. You watch events unfold, listen to what was said on Friday, then what’s being said now, and before you know it you’re thinking something you really ought not to be thinking. “Good on you, Iran.” Which is not a sentence you expect to find yourself uttering unless you’ve taken a wrong turn somewhere.

On Friday we had the full performance. Deadlines, ultimatums, talk of flattening infrastructure if compliance was not forthcoming. It was delivered with that familiar certainty, the sort that suggests the decision has already been made and we are simply being informed of it in advance.

A few days later, same voice, entirely different tune. “Productive conversations”, “major points of agreement”, and a neat five day pause on the bombs to let diplomacy run its course. Diplomacy that, slightly awkwardly, the other side says does not exist. At which point you do start to wonder whether someone, somewhere in the administration has been having perfectly cordial conversations with entirely the wrong country. Given past performances on geography, it would not be the greatest surprise.

Now, one does not normally lean on Tehran as a reliable narrator. Quite the opposite. But if one side says talks are well underway and the other says there have been none at all, and meanwhile the strikes that were imminent have been quietly shelved, you don’t need to be terribly clever to notice that something has shifted.

And when things shift that quickly, you start to notice who is at least sticking to a line, however disagreeable, and who is rewriting theirs as they go along.

There was a time when the word of a US President carried weight. Not infallible, not saintly, and occasionally derailed by the odd episode like Nixon’s, but broadly speaking if the White House said something, people assumed it bore some stable relationship to reality. That was rather the point.

It does not feel like that now. This has the faint air of the boy who cried wolf about it. You can only issue so many ultimatums, announce so many imminent actions, and then quietly step back from them before people stop taking you at your word. When the wolf is apparently back again, the reaction is no longer urgency, it is a raised eyebrow.

And that is where it becomes self-inflicted. If your story moves from threat to pause to “we’re nearly there” over the course of a weekend, you don’t just lose credibility on that one point. You make yourself unreliable on anything. Markets notice, allies notice, opponents certainly notice, and it has a habit of coming back to bite you in the bum at precisely the moment you would quite like to be believed.

Which is how you end up in this slightly awkward place. It’s not admiration for Iran. It’s that old underdog reflex. The smaller chap taking a punch and still standing there. You don’t approve of him, you wouldn’t trust him as far as you could throw him, but there is a moment where you find yourself thinking, well, at least he’s not changing his story mid sentence.

Then you remember who he is, and the moment passes. This is an authoritarian state with a long record of suppressing its own people and throwing its weight around the region. There is nothing admirable about that, and pretending otherwise would be self-indulgent nonsense.

But none of that rescues the credibility problem on the other side. If you threaten action, then delay it, then describe the delay as progress, and the people you claim to be negotiating with say there are no talks at all, you don’t get to be surprised when people start taking what you say with a pinch of salt.

It’s not that Iran has become trustworthy. It’s that the White House has made itself difficult to believe. And that leaves you in the mildly absurd position of watching a murderous regime hold its line, while the leader of the free world adjusts his, and finding yourself checking the clock afterwards, because if someone now says 3:23, you’re not entirely sure whether that means 3:23, 3:30, or whenever the story changes again.

Cliff With a View

There are places along the English coast where you can feel time passing in a civilised, almost courteous way. Eype is not one of them. Eype is where the land quietly packs its bags and leaves, usually taking a few human assumptions with it.

We set off from West Bay under the impression it was “a short stretch”. The South West Coast Path, it turns out, has its own view on that sort of language. It doesn’t do distance so much as gradients. You begin with a pleasant walk and within minutes you are hauling yourself up a slope that feels less like a path and more like a polite challenge to your cardiovascular system.

Mine, for the record, is now a meniscal matter, which is the sort of condition one invokes to preserve dignity while still limping slightly and making thoughtful noises. It’s not an injury as such, more a running commentary from the knee suggesting that this was all avoidable.

The beach route, sensibly, is closed. Not because anything dramatic has happened, but because something might. A sizeable portion of cliff has recently decided it preferred life at a lower altitude and has relocated accordingly. The sort of decision that rather spoils a walk if you happen to be underneath it at the time.

Up on the cliff top, things feel calmer. Not stable, exactly, but calm in the way that something can feel calm while quietly failing. The official path has simply edged back a bit, like a man in a pub giving a wide berth to someone explaining their latest investment strategy. It will edge back again when required. No fuss, no ceremony.

And then there’s the summer house.

It sits there with a breezy optimism that suggests it was put up in the late 50s or early 60s, when one could build on a cliff and assume the cliff would remain where it was put. It probably once had a proper garden, a decent margin from the edge, perhaps even a washing line turning gently in the sea breeze. Now it has a front-row seat to its own eventual absence.

The giveaway is the pipe. A length of plumbing protruding from the cliff face with a sort of resigned honesty. At some point it was buried, planned, part of a system. Now it simply empties into open space, which is also roughly the future of the building it serves.

Nobody is fixing that. Nobody is rerouting it or shoring anything up. The place has entered that very British phase of managed neglect, where you continue to use something while fully accepting that one winter it may simply cease to exist. There is no drama, just a quiet understanding between owner and geology.

The return journey, of course, is worse. Descending a steep, uneven path with a mildly irritated meniscus is a very particular form of entertainment. Each step is a small negotiation. The knee doesn’t refuse outright, it simply offers commentary. Persistent, slightly aggrieved commentary.

It reminds me of a worn suspension bush. Perfectly adequate on smooth surfaces, but introduce a bit of irregularity and suddenly every minor imperfection is transmitted directly through the system. By the bottom, my knee had formed a fairly robust view of Dorset.

Still, it was bracing. That’s the official line. We observed a cliff in the process of rearranging itself, a building in quiet retreat from existence, and a footpath that appears to have been designed with only a passing interest in cartilage.

We will, inevitably, go back. Probably with a flask. Possibly with a walking pole. And with the faint suspicion that the house may not be there next time, but the climb, somehow, always will be.

Same God, Different Rules

Nigel Farage wants to ban mass Muslim prayer near historic British sites, on the grounds that it amounts to intimidation and domination of public space.

It started, as these things often do, with a solemn declaration about “protecting historic British sites”. Perfectly reasonable on the face of it, until you stop and ask what exactly we’ve been doing at those sites for the last few thousand years, because Britain has never been short of people turning up at old stones and doing something faintly mystical.

Take Stonehenge. Every summer solstice, thousands gather in robes, greet the sunrise and commune with forces that, one suspects, are not especially concerned either way. Nobody calls this domination. It’s heritage, possibly with sandwiches. Over at Avebury, you can wander about inside a stone circle while various forms of spiritual activity unfold that would have baffled the original builders, and again it is all entirely acceptable, adds a bit of colour, tourists take photos. And on Glastonbury Tor, there is a steady trickle of people engaged in pursuits best described as spiritual with a hint of improvisation, and the nation copes.

So the principle seems straightforward enough. Large groups gathering at historic sites for religious or quasi religious purposes are either a charming expression of continuity or a problem, and the interesting question is what turns one into the other. We are told, in this case, that the issue is not mere presence but something more serious, words like intimidation and domination doing the rounds, which are strong words and suggest a clear, observable problem rather than a vague unease.

So you go looking for it, because if something has crossed that line there ought to be a moment you can point to. What actually happened, which rule was broken, who was obstructed or prevented from using the space, where is the point at which an ordinary public event became something more coercive. And this is where it all starts to drift, because no specific mechanism is ever quite identified. It is a bit like declaring a car unsafe without pointing to the failed brake or the snapped cable. You are given the conclusion, but not the fault.

If the concern were genuinely about crowd size, disruption, or public order, we already have rules for that and they apply to everyone, regardless of religion, costume, or choice of incense. And that is where the proposal runs into a more awkward problem, because Muslims and Christians are, in fact, worshipping the same God. “Allah” is simply the Arabic word for God, used by Arabic-speaking Christians as well. The disagreement is about the nature of that God, not about which God it is, which makes the distinction rather curious. Large groups worshipping the same deity are apparently acceptable in one case and a problem in another.

Meanwhile, similar gatherings continue elsewhere without fuss. The Druids will be back at Stonehenge, the spiritualists will drift up Glastonbury Tor, and nobody will reach for the word domination, which leaves you with the slightly awkward observation that the same basic activity produces entirely different reactions depending on who is doing it.

And while all this is going on, something else quietly slips past. The economic programme attached to all this cultural theatre is not especially mysterious, lower taxes tilted in a particular direction, a relaxed attitude to regulation, and a willingness to revisit the sort of fiscal experiments that, not long ago, sent gilt yields sharply upwards and forced a rapid retreat. It is not complicated, if you reduce revenue while maintaining spending pressures, the gap is made up somewhere, and it is usually not by the people being encouraged to feel aggrieved about events in public squares.

So the debate ends up tilted. We spend our time discussing who is standing where, and rather less time asking who is paying for what, which is convenient if you would prefer the second question not to be examined too closely. It is not that people are being told what to think so much as what to notice, and once that choice is made for them the rest tends to follow without much effort.

In the end, it is not really about protecting historic sites, nor is it about responding to a clearly evidenced problem. It is about directing attention, pointing at one thing, describing it in sufficiently loaded terms, and letting the rest of the conversation rearrange itself around it, which works perfectly well right up until someone looks somewhere else, usually at their wallet, and wonders how that got lighter while they were busy worrying about stone circles and Trafalgar Square.

The Ghost in the Machine

I was watching a programme the other evening about people creating AI versions of dead relatives. Husbands reconstructed from text messages, mothers rebuilt from old emails, voices pieced together from recordings. The idea is that you can keep talking to them. The programme treated this as something startlingly new. I am not entirely convinced.

I sometimes catch myself having imaginary conversations with my father. He has been gone a long time, but the mental map of him is still there. I know the tone he would use when he thought I was talking nonsense, and the small pause before he explained why. It is obviously not him. It is my memory of him, built from years of experience, but it can still be a useful reference point when I am thinking something through.

Which is when the penny dropped while watching the programme. Humans have always done this. The real question is simply where the conversation happens. Sometimes it happens inside the skull and sometimes it is pushed outside it.

Take prayer. Many people pray to saints, ancestors or deceased relatives. They speak to them, ask for guidance, sometimes imagine the reply. Imaginary conversations with someone you once knew work in much the same way. In both cases you are consulting a mental model built from memory. The voice is internal and you know it ultimately comes from your own reasoning. That internal version has a natural constraint because it is a mental map built from real experience. It cannot easily wander far beyond what you actually knew about the person.

Now consider the Victorian seance. People gathered around a table while a medium tapped out messages from the dead. The voice, of course, was the medium's. The dead relative was only being interpreted through someone else's words. Which brings us to the modern twist, AI relatives. Here the conversation is external again, like the seance, but with one crucial difference. The voice of the machine can be trained to sound exactly like the dead person, their phrases, their cadence, even their manner of argument.

So the structure ends up looking rather simple. Seances and AI relatives externalise the conversation. Prayer to the dead and imaginary conversations keep it internal. In all four cases the human brain is doing the same thing, modelling another person's mind. The difference is where the reply appears to come from.

The AI version, however, introduces something the Victorians never had to contend with. The medium never sounded like your father. The AI can. That similarity creates trust. When the reply arrives in the recognisable voice of someone you loved, the brain is far more inclined to treat it as authentic. Yet the machine is not recalling anything. It is extrapolating, generating sentences the real person never spoke.

The internal voice you carry from memory is limited by the map you built from real life. The external machine is not limited in that way. It can extend the pattern indefinitely. Which is where the danger lies. The technology does not resurrect the dead. It produces a persuasive imitation of them, a voice that feels familiar but which can now say things the real person never said.

The Victorians dimmed the lights and waited for the table to move. We sit on the sofa and wait for the typing bubble to appear. The instinct is the same, but the modern version sounds much more like the person we lost, and that makes it far easier to trust a voice that ultimately belongs to a machine.

Performative Pins

It starts innocently enough. A small badge on a lapel, barely visible unless you go looking for it. Then, once you’ve noticed it, you realise it’s everywhere.

In America it’s the flag, of course. Tiny stars and stripes pinned to otherwise identical suits, like a uniform accessory issued with the job. You begin to suspect that somewhere in Washington there’s a drawer marked “Patriotism - standard size”, and woe betide the man who forgets to pick one up on the way out. Turn up without it and you half expect a quiet word. Not an accusation, nothing so crude, just a gentle enquiry as to whether you’ve perhaps misplaced your country.

Over here, we’ve had a cautious go at the same thing. The Union Jack makes occasional appearances, usually at party conferences, looking faintly as if it’s been added at the last minute. You can almost hear the internal dialogue. “This feels a bit American.” “Yes, but we should probably have one.” And so it sits there, slightly self-conscious, like a novelty tie that no one quite knows how to carry off.

Most of Europe sensibly ignores the whole business. The French manage to run an entire state without pinning it to their jackets, which suggests the Republic is more robust than a bit of enamel. The Germans appear similarly confident that their national identity will survive a day at the office without visible reinforcement.

Then you notice the more deliberate users. Netanyahu with his flag, worn with practised ease, part of the overall presentation. Putin too, though there it feels less like a choice and more like it arrived pre-approved along with the rest of the staging. In both cases, it’s not accidental. The symbol is doing a job.

And that, really, is where it starts to grate. Because once the symbol is doing a job, it stops being expression and starts being costume.

Which brings us neatly to the British variation, the seasonal edition. The poppy.

Now, the poppy itself is not the problem. It began, quite properly, as a quiet act of remembrance. A small, unobtrusive marker. You wore it if you wished. You didn’t if you didn’t. Nobody kept a ledger and nobody asked questions.

Then, as ever, we got organised. The poppies appeared earlier. They became more substantial. You started to see them in places where you rather suspected the wearer hadn’t given them a moment’s thought beyond “better put that on”. Newsreaders, politicians, the lot, all pinned up on cue, as if remembrance had a start date and a dress code.

And then the question arrived. It always does. “Why aren’t you wearing one?”

At that point the whole thing tilts. The moment you have to account for the absence of a symbol, the symbol has ceased to be voluntary. It’s now a test. Not an official one, nothing written down, but understood all the same.

It reminds me of those car recalls where a perfectly serviceable component suddenly becomes a matter of urgent compliance. The car worked perfectly well yesterday, but now there’s a note on file and a suggestion that you ought to get it sorted. The difference is, of course, that the car doesn’t care. People do.

And you start to see the underlying pattern. The more secure a country feels, the less it needs to advertise itself on a lapel. The more uncertain it becomes, the more it reaches for symbols, just to reassure itself that everything is still intact.

So you end up with this curious situation where something intended as private reflection becomes a mildly policed public performance. Not because individuals are insincere, but because the system gently nudges everyone in the same direction until deviation starts to look like dissent.

And once you get there, the meaning drains away rather quickly. The flag pin, the poppy, the lot of them. Small objects trying to carry rather a lot of weight, until they collapse into routine.

In the end, you’re left looking at a room full of identical lapels and wondering whether anyone has forgotten anything important. Not the pin. The reason it was there in the first place.

The 13mm Nut That Launched a Shopping Expedition

There is a particular sort of confidence that only appears when a tap is loose. Not a flood, not a burst pipe, just a gentle wobble that suggests mild contempt every time you wash your hands. So naturally I did not check my tools. I did not measure anything. I ordered a tap backnut spanner.

What arrived could have serviced the cooling system of a small destroyer. It was vast. Heroic. The kind of tool you would use to tighten a Victorian water main. I offered it up under the wall hung basin and it laughed at me. The nut was about 13 mm. The spanner was clearly designed for something north of 30 mm, possibly agricultural.

Return number one.

Undeterred, I moved into what I told myself was analysis mode. The stud looked about 8 mm. That implies M8. M8 usually means a 13 mm nut across flats. Excellent. Progress. I bought a deep socket set to do the job properly, feeling faintly professional about the whole thing.

When it arrived in the post it only went up to 11 mm.

At this point the tap was no longer wobbling. It was observing. Quietly. Patiently. Like a cat watching you attempt DIY.

So I bought a 13 mm deep box spanner from Amazon. Decisive. Surgical. The correct size for an M8 stud. I felt vindicated by mathematics and just a trace of spite.

Then, in a moment of idle rummaging through my old box spanner tin, I found it.

A 13 mm deep box spanner. Mine. All along. It had been sitting there quietly for years. Through house moves, garage reorganisations, and previous plumbing victories. Waiting for me to complete a small retail pilgrimage before revealing itself like some metallic punchline.

There is a universal domestic law at work here. The moment you press Buy Now, the missing tool materialises in the very box you definitely checked. Usually under something irrelevant, like a Jubilee clip from 2003.

Naturally I cancelled the Amazon order immediately, hoping it had not reached that ominous status of Preparing for Dispatch, which translates roughly as it is already in a van but we enjoy the suspense.

The tap was be tightened. The wobble ceased. Order was restored. But the real lesson is not about torque or thread sizes. It is about the strange human instinct to shop before we look. Somewhere in that garage, I suspect, is also a 14 mm deep socket. And I will probably find it the day after I need it.

The Engine That Purrs While It Fails

There is a particular type of man who can say something quite alarming in a tone normally reserved for explaining how to descale a kettle, and half the room will nod along as if they’ve just heard a sensible bit of household advice.

Take Netanyahu or Putin. They speak in complete sentences, pause in the right places, and look as though they’ve read the briefing notes and, crucially, understood them. It all feels reassuring, like a pilot calmly explaining a delay. Then along comes Trump, who sounds like a man assembling flat pack furniture without the instructions while narrating the process. He starts a point, abandons it, returns to it from a different angle, and occasionally discovers a new one halfway through the sentence. Because we are human and slightly lazy in our thinking, we conclude that the first pair are believable and the second is not.

Which is where it all goes wrong. A well delivered argument is not the same thing as a true one, it just feels like it is. The brain hears fluency and quietly ticks a box marked probably correct, which is rather like assuming a car is mechanically sound because the engine note is smooth at idle. You can have an engine that purrs beautifully while quietly eating its own bearings, and you can have one that sounds a bit agricultural but will run forever if you leave it alone. The noise tells you something, but not the thing you actually need to know.

Putin in particular has turned this into a system. Calm voice, neat narrative, no visible hesitation. It creates the impression of inevitability, which is very useful if what you are saying would look rather less convincing if anyone stopped to pull it apart. Netanyahu is cut from a similar cloth, albeit with a different audience and a different set of arguments. Very polished, very controlled, very certain. You may agree or disagree with him, but he rarely sounds as if he is guessing. Trump, meanwhile, sounds exactly like someone guessing in real time, which makes people uncomfortable even when he stumbles onto something broadly correct, because it doesn’t come wrapped in that reassuring layer of polish.

So we end up judging the message by the smoothness of the delivery, which is a bit like buying a car based on how nicely the salesman closes the door. It shuts with a satisfying thunk and you think, well, that feels solid, and then a week later the gearbox falls out somewhere near Swindon.

Culinary Misidentification

We’d done the sensible thing before we set off in the motorhome and I’d made a proper hachis Parmentier, the sort of slow cooked beef dish that sits there quietly proving you are, in fact, a competent adult. Something rich, deliberate, unmistakably beef. The kind of meal that does not invite debate about what species is involved.

Which is just as well, as it turns out.

Because one night is always given over to a Charlie Bigham. We call it a treat, which is a polite way of saying we’ve decided not to bother. Hay cooked one in the motorhome in Portesham, and it came out exactly as they all do. Golden lid, creamy interior, the visual equivalent of a reassuring nod.

I ate it quite happily. No complaints at all. And when I’d finished, I sat back and, with the calm authority of a man who clearly understands what he has just consumed, announced that it was a very nice fish pie.

It was not a fish pie. It was chicken and ham hock.

Now, that would be bad enough on its own. Confusing fish with poultry and pig is not a minor slip. It is a full category error. But the detail that really ought to concern everyone involved is this: I hadn’t just mislabelled the dish. I had actually eaten pieces of chicken and calmly registered them as prawns.

Not vaguely prawn-like. Not “something a bit fishy”. Proper chunks of chicken had gone through chewing, consideration, and whatever passes for analysis, and emerged in my mind as seafood. At that point we are no longer dealing with a simple mistake. That is a complete breakdown in quality control.

It is rather like lifting the bonnet, pointing at something entirely at random, and declaring the alternator has gone, only to discover the car is missing a wheel. The process has not just gone wrong, it has gone wrong with confidence.

And that, I think, is the interesting bit. The certainty. There was no hesitation. No cautious probing. My brain took a quick look at the situation, decided it recognised the pattern, and shut down further enquiry. Creamy pie, pale protein, eaten in a motorhome - close enough, move on.

Which does make you wonder how often this happens elsewhere. A familiar outline, a quick assumption, and then a firm conclusion delivered with just enough authority to discourage anyone from asking whether you’ve actually checked. Details become optional once the general idea feels about right.

In fairness, those Bigham’s pies do encourage this sort of thinking. They all arrive under the same polite golden lid, each one a variation on a theme of middle class reassurance. Once you’ve decided what it probably is, the rest of the evidence seems to be treated as an administrative inconvenience.

Hay, to her credit, handled this with admirable restraint. There was a pause, a look, and then the quiet correction. No fuss, no lecture, just the gentle dismantling of my entirely misplaced confidence.

Which leaves me with the slightly awkward conclusion that, given enough sauce and a pastry lid, I may no longer be able to distinguish between land and sea. A worrying development for someone who prides himself on knowing what he’s looking at.

I shall stick to the hachis Parmentier in future. At least then, if I insist it’s something else, we can all agree the fault lies with me rather than the evidence.