The 12 Rules for Life: Jordan Peterson

 

Why Britain cannot build enough of anything

 The problem is bad rules, not bad people opines The Economist

Sep 1st 2022

Duncan sandys, a Conservative minister in the 1950s and 1960s, has two reasons to be remembered. The first is that he was the “headless man” being fellated by the Duchess of Argyll in a Polaroid photo, which emerged in divorce proceedings so vicious that they were turned into a bbc One drama earlier this year.

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The second reason is less salacious. In 1955 Sandys issued a circular that fundamentally changed Britain. It implored local councils to forbid building on the edge of cities in order “a) to check the further growth of a large built-up area; b) to prevent neighbouring towns from merging into one another; or c) to preserve the special character of a town”. The authorities had tried to restrict urban growth since the reign of Elizabeth I. Now they could.

Today all four nations of the United Kingdom have green belts. About 13% of England is so designated, including the surroundings of every major city. The girdle that encloses London is three times the size of the capital. A stroll through it takes in scrubland, pony paddocks and petrol stations. In “The Blunders of our Governments”, a book by Anthony King and Ivor Crewe, the policy is held up as a rare example of legislation achieving exactly what was intended.

The green belts do their jobs well, pushing development into the rural areas between them (see maps). Indeed, most parts of the planning system work as intended. Councillors retain democratic control over the planning system. Environmental watchdogs enforce their mandates fiercely. Stringent rules protect bats, squirrels and rare fungi. Courts ensure that procedures are followed to the letter. But the system as a whole is a failure. Britain cannot build.

In total, about 10% of gdp is spent on building, compared with a g7 average of 12%. England has 434 dwellings per 1,000 people, whereas France has 590, according to the oecd, a club of mostly rich countries. There is little slack in the market. In France, about 8% of dwellings are vacant at any one time. In England, the rate is barely 1%. Britain also struggles to build reservoirs and (despite boasts from successive prime ministers) nuclear power stations. With almost 500,000 people, Leeds is the largest city in Europe without a mass transit system. What has gone wrong?

The problem starts with the Town and Country Planning Act, which nationalised the right to build on land. Where once owners could do almost as they pleased, after its passage in 1947, local councils controlled what was built where. They have never relinquished that power. The planning system has more in common with an old eastern European command economy than a functioning market, argues Anthony Breach of Centre for Cities, a think-tank. “We do not have a planning system, we have a rationing system,” he says.

Even when councils approve development, other outfits can stop it. Natural England was created in 2006 with the aim of protecting flora and fauna. After a European Court of Justice ruling in 2018, it was tasked with ensuring “nutrient neutrality”, meaning any development could not increase phosphate or nitrate pollution in rivers. Natural England came up with a blunt solution: building could not go ahead unless developers could prove it would not lead to an increase in nutrient levels, a stipulation that few could provide.

The result was a near total freeze on house-building. Local politicians and developers, who had spent years in painful negotiations, were caught out. In total, about 14% of England’s land faced extra restrictions. One industry group argues that 120,000 houses were affected, or 40% of Britain’s annual housing target. Liz Truss, the likely next prime minister, has promised to scrap the requirement, but details are scant.

Newts present as many problems as nutrients. Anyone who harms a great crested newt while building can be jailed for up to six months. Bats are a nightmare for anyone renovating or developing (enterprising nimbys sometimes install bat boxes in order to attract them to a potential site). Protected under law, it is a crime to harm a bat or destroy its roost. A full report, which involves ecologists scouring a property with bat-hunting microphones plugged into iPhones, can cost £5,000 ($5,800).

If a roost must be destroyed, a like-for-like replacement must be installed. hs2, a railway line, was forced to build a £40m bat tunnel to stop the creatures being squished; its route is lined with bat-houses, which are large enough for humans. For developers, the rules are an expensive annoyance. For bats, however, the legislation has been a success. Numbers of the common pipistrelle have almost doubled since records began in 1999.

Some schemes do not survive contact with environmental objections. A planned nuclear power station in north Wales was rejected by the planning inspectorate in 2019 partly on the ground that it might affect a local population of terns. Inspectors ruled that “it cannot be demonstrated beyond reasonable scientific doubt that the tern colony would not abandon Cemlyn Bay”. That the terns had existed next to a previous nuclear power station was little defence. Inspectors also worried about the effect construction would have on the dominance of the Welsh language.

Even small housing estates now require reams of impact assessments and consultations. A planning application used to involve a single thick folder, says Paul Smith, the managing director of Strategic Land Group, which helps customers win planning permission. Now it is a thicket of pdfs, often running to thousands of pages.

For a development of 350 houses in Staffordshire, a developer had to provide a statement of community involvement, a topographical survey, an archaeological report, an ecology appraisal, a newt survey, a bat survey, a barn owl survey, a geotechnical investigation to determine if the ground was contaminated, a landscape and visual impact assessment, a tree survey, a development framework plan, a transport statement, a design and access statement, a noise assessment, an air quality assessment, a flood risk assessment, a health impact assessment and an education impacts report. These are individually justifiable, yet collectively intolerable.

See you in court

Make an error, however, and a legal challenge will follow. Anyone affected by a decision and able to afford a judicial review can challenge a planning decision. For a group of motivated, well-off nimbys, whipping together £20,000 for a review is easy enough. In Bethnal Green, in east London, a mulberry tree blocked the conversion of a Victorian hospital into 291 flats. Dame Judi Dench, an actor, was roped in to support the tree, which was so frail it required support from a post haphazardly nailed onto one of its branches.

After a campaign, the mulberry was in 2018 designated a veteran tree, which gives it special legal rights. (The number of signatories to save the tree matched the then population of Bethnal Green.) Although the developer had proposed moving the plant, a judge ruled that the council had not properly considered the danger that it might not survive: “A policy was misinterpreted; a material consideration was ignored.” The site sits derelict today.

Councils behave rationally when it comes to development. They levy no income tax or sales tax, and cannot even fund all their operations from property taxes, known as council tax. In all, local government imposes taxes worth less than 2% of gdp, according to the oecd. So more development does not equal much more money for better services. But it does equal more complaints. Councillors often enjoy majorities of just a few dozen votes. A well-organised campaign can replace an entire council, as happened in Uttlesford, in Essex. The result is that local councils are “a bottleneck on national economic growth”, argues a joint paper by the Centre for Cities and the Resolution Foundation.

The government in Westminster can usually override local objections. “When the state decides to act, it has unlimited power,” says Andrew Adonis, a Labour peer, who oversaw the introduction of hs2. Projects such as hybrid bills allow the government to bypass the planning system, turning Parliament into a kind of planning committee. The process is so arduous that sitting on the committee is often a form of punishment from the whips who enforce party discipline. But the benefit is that courts do not challenge primary legislation. Judicial review claims bounced off hs2 like stones off a tank.

Even when the government acts, it is often cautious. A plan to turn a quarry in Kent into a settlement of 15,000 homes was one of the most ambitious schemes, when announced by George Osborne, the then-chancellor, in 2014. Yet it is around a seventh of the size of Milton Keynes, a maligned but highly successful new town begun in the 1960s.

Larger schemes, such as a push for a million homes stretching between Oxford and Cambridge, with a new railway and motorway linking them, have been ditched due to local opposition. “We were a bit out of puff,” admits a cabinet minister. Greg Smith, a Tory mp, had already put up with hs2 slicing through his constituency, and it seemed unfair to subject him to more building. In Britain, pork barrel politics works in reverse, with mps keen to keep things out of their constituencies.

As a result, Britain’s most productive region is shackled. Burgeoning life-sciences firms fight for scarce lab and office space while world-class researchers live in cramped, expensive homes. The average house price in Oxford, £474,000, is about 12 times average incomes. Given the opposition of local councils and local mps to housebuilding, though, it can hardly be said to be against voters’ will.

Britain is rare in that the Treasury functions as both a finance ministry, keeping a close eye on spending, and an economic ministry, investing for the future. Thriftiness tends to trump investment. “[The Treasury] can add up but they can’t multiply” as Diane Coyle, an economist, puts it. It shackles big infrastructure projects, balking at upfront costs even if there are large returns later on.

The result is false economies. hs2, a £100bn project to connect London to Birmingham and then Manchester, Sheffield and Leeds, was intended mostly to add capacity to Britain’s crowded railways, not (despite the name) to speed journeys up. The government recently cut the eastern leg of the scheme to save money. That it was the most beneficial part of the scheme—the eastern leg to Leeds and Sheffield had a benefit-to-cost ratio of nearly 5.6:1, compared with 2.6:1 on the western leg between London, Birmingham and Manchester—was overlooked. Joseph Bazalgette, the Victorian responsible for London’s sewer system, is said to have argued that: “We’re only going to do this once and there’s always the unforeseen”. Now, the opposite principle applies.

Political capital is less fungible than the financial kind. When it comes to building things in Britain, there is usually no alternative scheme ready to go. If a big project is scrapped, the political capital spent on forcing through its approval cannot be instantly reallocated. The slow process of winning support at a local and national level must start anew. In the meantime, nothing is built.

And Westminster can be capricious. In 2022, after years of argument, Transport for London won permission to build 351 flats on land it owned at Cockfosters Underground station. Grant Shapps, the transport secretary, blocked the development because it removed too many car parking spaces. The Leeds Supertram Act was passed in 1993. Three decades later, Leeds possesses no tram, super or not, as a series of governments refused to fund the project. In 2016 the government rejected a proposal for a trolleybus, in part because it did not think the route would reduce inequality within the city.

Scepticism among nimbys is often justified. Post-war town planners botched city centres, bulldozing through objections. Birmingham’s Victorian centre was carved up to make way for ring roads that still throttle the city. London narrowly avoided a similar fate. New developments, such as Nine Elms, manage to be expensive while looking cheap. Outside big cities, development is often limited to boxy housing estates, which are notorious for poor building quality. A Welsh property surveyor has amassed 560,000 followers on TikTok by angrily taking viewers through snags in newbuilds. (“Check out what this absolute melt has done with this hinge,” he almost screams in one video. “That is absolutely ridiculous.”)

In Oxfordshire a group of residents have spent almost a quarter of a century fighting attempts to build a reservoir. The Environment Agency and a public inquiry sided with the residents over Thames Water. The objectors are shrewd, motivated and well-versed in water regulation. The chairman of the Group Against Reservoir Development (gard) is a retired nuclear scientist; his predecessor was a brigadier. But after a summer of drought, in which Thames Water had to implement a hosepipe ban, the victory rings a little hollow.

Efforts are being made to convert the unbelievers. New planning legislation offers residents the chance to propose their own development and, in effect, approve it themselves via street votes. The government is trying to improve design standards, hoping that beautiful buildings will attract less opposition. Those who put up with infrastructure, whether wind turbines or a reservoir, may benefit from free energy or water bills under one scheme floated by ministers.

Officials are also toying with a net-zero trump card. Projects deemed crucial to making Britain emissions neutral by 2050 would be able to ride roughshod over many obstacles. At the moment policy aimed at protecting the environment hinders projects that should help the climate. The government protects flora and fauna because voters want it; circumventing such rules can only be done in the name of the environment, runs the logic.

Building is binary, however. If something is built, those who oppose it will be unhappy; if it is scrapped they will be delighted. There is little incentive to meet halfway, or to accept a payoff. “This is not some sort of poker game where we demand huge compensation,” said Derek Stork, who chairs the reservoir-killing gard. Britain cannot build. But that is just the way voters want it.

Will blockchain fulfil its democratic promise or will it become a tool of big tech?

Engineers are focused on reducing its carbon footprint, ignoring the governance issues raised by the technology writes John Naughton in The Guardian

Illuminated rigs at the Minto cryptocurrency mining centre in Nadvoitsy, Russia. Photograph: Andrey Rudakov/Getty Images



When the cryptocurrency bitcoin first made its appearance in 2009, an interesting divergence of opinions about it rapidly emerged. Journalists tended to regard it as some kind of incomprehensible money-laundering scam, while computer scientists, who were largely agnostic about bitcoin’s prospects, nevertheless thought that the distributed-ledger technology (the so-called blockchain) that underpinned the currency was a Big Idea that could have far-reaching consequences.

In this conviction they were joined by legions of techno-libertarians who viewed the technology as a way of enabling economic life without the oppressive oversight of central banks and other regulatory institutions. Blockchain technology had the potential to change the way we buy and sell, interact with government and verify the authenticity of everything from property titles to organic vegetables. It combined, burbled that well-known revolutionary body Goldman Sachs, “the openness of the internet with the security of cryptography to give everyone a faster, safer way to verify key information and establish trust”. Verily, cryptography would set us free.

At its core, a blockchain is just a ledger – a record of time-stamped transactions. These transactions can be any movement of money, goods or secure data – a purchase at a store, for example, the title to a piece of property, the assignment of an NHS number or a vaccination status, you name it. In the offline world, transactions are verified by some central third party – a government agency, a bank or Visa, say. But a blockchain is a distributed (ie, decentralised) ledger where verification (and therefore trustworthiness) comes not from a central authority but from a consensus of many users of the blockchain that a particular transaction is valid. Verified transactions are gathered into “blocks”, which are then “chained” together using heavy-duty cryptography so that, in principle, any attempt retrospectively to alter the details of a transaction would be visible. And oppressive, rent-seeking authorities such as Visa and Mastercard (or, for that matter, Stripe) are nowhere in the chain.
 
Given all that, it’s easy to see why the blockchain idea evokes utopian hopes: at last, technology is sticking it to the Man. In that sense, the excitement surrounding it reminds me of the early days of the internet, when we really believed that our contemporaries had invented a technology that was democratising and liberating and beyond the reach of established power structures. And indeed the network had – and still possesses – those desirable affordances. But we’re not using them to achieve their great potential. Instead, we’ve got YouTube and Netflix. What we underestimated, in our naivety, were the power of sovereign states, the ruthlessness and capacity of corporations and the passivity of consumers, a combination of which eventually led to corporate capture of the internet and the centralisation of digital power in the hands of a few giant corporations and national governments. In other words, the same entrapment as happened to the breakthrough communications technologies – telephone, broadcast radio and TV, and movies – in the 20th century, memorably chronicled by Tim Wu in his book The Master Switch.

Will this happen to blockchain technology? Hopefully not, but the enthusiastic endorsement of it by outfits such as Goldman Sachs is not exactly reassuring. The problem with digital technology is that, for engineers, it is both intrinsically fascinating and seductively challenging, which means that they acquire a kind of tunnel vision: they are so focused on finding solutions to the technical problems that they are blinded to the wider context. At the moment, for example, the consensus-establishing processes for verifying blockchain transactions requires intensive computation, with a correspondingly heavy carbon footprint. Reducing that poses intriguing technical challenges, but focusing on them means that the engineering community isn’t thinking about the governance issues raised by the technology. There may not be any central authority in a blockchain but, as Vili Lehdonvirta pointed out years ago, there are rules for what constitutes a consensus and, therefore, a question about who exactly sets those rules. The engineers? The owners of the biggest supercomputers on the chain? Goldman Sachs? These are ultimately political questions, not technical ones.

Blockchain engineers also don’t seem to be much interested in the needs of the humans who might ultimately be users of the technology. That, at any rate, is the conclusion that cryptographer Moxie Marlinspike came to in a fascinating examination of the technology. “When people talk about blockchains,” he writes, “they talk about distributed trust, leaderless consensus and all the mechanics of how that works, but often gloss over the reality that clients ultimately can’t participate in those mechanics. All the network diagrams are of servers, the trust model is between servers, everything is about servers. Blockchains are designed to be a network of peers, but not designed such that it’s really possible for your mobile device or your browser to be one of those peers.”

And we’re nowhere near that point yet.

Ye khel kya hai…. by Javed Akhtar

Mere mukhaalif ne chaal chal di hai
Aur ab
Meri chaal ke intezaar mein hai
Magar main kab se
Safed khaanon
Siyaah khaanon mein rakkhe
Kaale safed mohron ko dekhta hoon
Main sochta hoon
Ye mohre kya hain

Agar main samjhoon
Ki ye jo mohre hain
Sirf lakdi ke hain khilone
To jeetna kya hai haarna kya
Na ye zaroori
Na vo aham hai
Agar khushi hai na jeetne ki
Na haarne ka bhi koi gham hai
To khel kya hai
Main sochta hoon
Jo khelna hai
To apne dil mein yaqeen kar lon
Ye mohre sach-much ke baadshah-o-vazeer
Sach-much ke hain piyaade
Aur in kea age hai
Dushmanon ki vo fauj
Rakhti hai jo mujh ko tabaah karne ke
Saare mansoobe
Sab iraade
Magar main aisa jo maan bhi loon
To sochta hoon
Yeh khel kab hai
Ye jang hai jis ko jeetna hai
Ye jang hai jis mein sab hai jaayaz
Koi ye kehta hai jaise mujh se
Ye jang bhi hai
Ye khel bhi hai
Ye jang hai par khiladiyon ki
Ye khel hai jang ki tarah ka
Main sochta hoon
Jo khel hai
Is mein ir tarah ka usool kyon hai
Ki koi mohra rah eke jaaye
Magar jo hai baadshah
Us par kabhi koi aanch bhi na aaye
Vazeer hi ko hai bas ijaazat
Ke jis taraf bhi vo chaahe jaaye

Main sochta hoon
Jo khel hai
Is mein is tarah ka usool kyon hai
Piyaada jab apne ghar se nikle
Palat ke vaapas na aane paaye
Main sochta hoon
Agar yahoo hai usool
To phir usool kya hai
Agar yahi hai ye khel
To phir ye khel kya hai
Main in savaalon se aane kab se ulajh raha hoon
Mere mukhalif ne chaal chal di hai
Aur ab meri chaal ke intezaar mein hai

The English translation is below:
What Game is It?

My opponent has made a move
And now
Awaits mine.
But for ages
I stare at the black and white pieces
That lie on white and black squares
And I think
What are these pieces?

Were I to assume
That these pieces
Are no more than wooden toys
Then what is a victory or a loss?
If in winnings there are no joys
Nor sorrows in losing
What is the game?
I think
If I must play
Then I must believe
That these pieces are indeed king and minister
Indeed these are foot soldiers
And arrayed before them
Is that enemy army
Which harbours all plans evil
All schemes sinister
To destroy me
But were I to believe this
Then is this a game any longer?
This is a war that must be won
A war in which all is fair
It is as if somebody explains:
This is a war
And a game as well
It is a war, but between players
A game between warriors
I think
If it is a game
Then why does it have a rule
That whether a foot solder stays or goes
The one who is king
Must always be protected?
That only the minster has the freedom
To move any which way?

I think
Why does this game
Have a rule
That once a foot solder leaves home
He can never return?
I think
If this is the rule
Then what is a rule?
If this is the game
Then what is the name of the game?
I have been wrestling for ages with these questions
But my opponent has made a move
And awaits mine.

George Osborne got away with his Big Lie.

William Keegan in the Guardian

What's now in the box? Osborne outside 11 Downing Street before delivering his last budget speech ahead of May's general election. Photograph: Dominic Lipinski/PA

The inquest on Labour’s electoral defeat will run and run, and the recriminations will no doubt persist throughout the party’s inordinately long timetable for selecting a new leader. But there is a limit to which candidates should surrender to the Big Lie that George Osborne, more than anyone else, has managed to get away with.

Take a report in the Times’s recent “investigation” into Labour’s “disastrous campaign”. We are told that “as early as 2010, Labour’s pollsters sent a memo saying the party should argue ‘the deficit is the number one challenge facing the country’ and back ‘tough spending cuts’.”

The truth is that the deficit was not the problem: it was the solution. What the much-maligned government of Gordon Brown did was to recognise this, and act accordingly. One of the principal beneficiaries of this sensible Keynesian response was George Osborne, who inherited the economy in which the prospect of a 1930s depression had been warded off. He proceeded to make wholly misleading analogies with the state of the benighted Greek economy and embark on a programme of austerity which Ed Balls rightly warned would stop the recovery in its tracks.

 It is not for me to join the chorus maintaining that Labour should have admitted that all the extra spending on schools and hospitals was a mistake. The most serious mistake was not to get across with sufficient emphasis that by far the biggest contribution to a rise in public sector debt was caused by the banking crisis. Moreover, as my old mentor, the Nobel laureate Professor Amartya Sen, pointed out recently in a lecture reproduced in the New Statesman: “Even if we want to reduce public debt quickly, austerity is not a particularly effective way of achieving this (which the European and British experiences confirm)”.

It is tragic that the Big Lie was not dealt with by Ed Miliband. Apparently he dismissed advice from Alastair Campbell, way back, that he should commission an independent report, by a respected figure, on Labour’s past spending plans – plans that had been supported at the time by Messrs Cameron and Osborne. Even the Times reflects that such a report “would almost certainly have cleared Labour of blame, with a minor dispute around whether the party could have spent less in 2007”.

But the deficit story was allowed to run and run, and poor Miliband failed to scotch it on at least two prominent occasions. Yet, as Sir Nicholas Macpherson, the Treasury’s top civil servant, has stated: “The 2008 crisis was a banking crisis pure and simple.”

That crisis was a cataclysm. It demanded a short-term approach to warding off catastrophic consequences, and a long-term approach to reducing a national debt that, notwithstanding the impact of the crisis, remained, as Sen emphasises, remarkably low by historical standards. As he says, put quite simply, for reducing the debt, “we need economic growth; and austerity, as Keynes noted, is essentially anti-growth”.

But such wisdom will cut no ice with a cocky chancellor who can hardly believe his luck at how Labour played into his hands. By winning a mere 37% of votes cast, he thinks he now has the support of the country for a renewal of austerity. He plans a budget which – by not treating capital expenditure as something to be financed over the lifetime of the project, but from a single year’s revenue – is going to place huge burdens on the public services. Just brace yourselves for the real cuts.

Osborne’s first austerity programme brought us reductions in capital expenditure when borrowing costs for much-needed projects were negligible. In the past year or so, he has finally woken up to this country’s infrastructure problems and – who knows? – before long may even find himself reinventing the National Economic Development Office.

As Sen points out, had the British public been frightened after the second world war by the debt ratio, which was more than twice what it has been in recent years, “the NHS would never have been born, and the great experiment of having a welfare state in Europe (from which the whole world from China, Korea and Singapore to Brazil and Mexico would learn) would not have found a foothold”.

We were helped after the war by a loan from the US (mainly) and Canada, which was finally paid off in 2006. And a war loan dating from the first world war was finally redeemed earlier this year!

Osborne has rightly attracted ridicule, even from friendly commentators, for his absurd plan to try to bind all future governments to a law that demands not just budget balance but budget surpluses during “normal times” – a phrase that opens up great scope for debate. Apart from anything else, it is evident from the frequent revisions to statistics, and therefore analysis made by the Office for National Statistics and the Office for Budget Responsibility, that it is often not obvious at the time whether one is indeed living in “normal times”.

Rather like his distinguished predecessor, Lord Lawson, Osborne has become obsessed by “rules”. But as one of Macpherson’s distinguished predecessors, Sir Douglas Allen, used to say, what matters is not budget balance, let alone budget surplus, but a balanced economy. That is not what is on offer from the present chancellor.

Humanity's future depends upon good grammar

The Bad Grammar award has been charged with sneering misanthropy, but as a judge I say that our children's lives are at stake 

If you tolerate this, then your children won't be next … a Tesco sign. Photograph: Rui Vieira/PA

So far in my four decades, I have lived a life blissfully free of controversy. No paparazzi have ever staked out my front door and, with the odd (in both senses of the word) outraged commenter aside, I have never, to my knowledge, sparked loathing and fury in anyone I either know or don't. So it was with an ease prompted in equal measures by naivete and common sense that when Tom Hodgkinson of the Idler Academy emailed me several months ago to ask whether I would like to be a judge for this year's Bad Grammar award, I agreed with not the slightest bit of hesitancy.

Well! Who knew that an interest in how the English language works was tantamount to announcing oneself as a frothing-mouthed raving loony? Are sentence structures the new poll tax? I could only assume so from the frankly hilarious rage that greeted the announcement of our shortlist this week. I feared I had failed in my capacity as a judge already when my presence on the panel did not prevent the prize from being raged against on the website I write for, when one especially outraged chap wrote that I and my fellow judges, Jeremy Paxman and Rowley Leigh, were "peddling sneering, condescending, dismissive, misanthropic, elitist, made-up twaddle"? He suggested that our rackety prize was some kind of undefined Gove-ian conspiracy and, perhaps mistaking our prize for actual legislation, that we were "language police". I could spend longer dismantling this particular blog but, first, life's too short and, second, seeing as the gentleman's main objection seemed to be that the prize was inspired by a book (that I had heretofore never encountered) called Gwynne's Grammar, and he himself has written a competing grammar book, I'm not convinced there's really any need.

Even lovely Michael Rosen seemed to feel the bile rising at the prospect of these awards, calling them "nasty" and insisting that bad grammar is "no big deal. We all make mistakes. In most circumstances it's no big deal. We get what the person meant from the context."

Indeed we do. This, it seems, lies at the heart of this issue: should grammar be prescriptive or descriptive? In other words, should we all adhere to a set of hard rules from the 16th century or should we just blunder along, let language take its course and assume we know what each other means? Obviously, the answer lies between those two extremes. But I am going to speak up here in defence of good grammar and, contrary to the suggestion of one columnist, my defence is in no way endorsed or inspired by Michael Gove.

One doesn't need to be Thomas Gradgrind to be interested in the rules underlying the English language, or to believe that good communication and understanding depend on clarity. Grammar is not just about learning sentence construction: it's about speaking clearly and plainly and cutting through obfustication. But even aside from that, and most importantly of all, good grammar will help you get laid.

I learned grammar at my school in the US and I am eternally grateful I did because, when I moved to London in the early 90s at the age of 11, I learned that grammar was not, weirdly, on the syllabus. As a result, I found learning foreign languages, such as French and Italian, far easier than some of my new English friends did because I understood the subjunctive tense and verb conjugations. Only one other girl in my year had also had grammar lessons and she, too, found learning foreign languages a comparative doddle. When we were about 16, a bunch of my friends, including my grammatically-correct friend, all went off on a German exchange and my friend, with her superior grammar skills, pulled not one, not two, but THREE German boys. I'm telling you, Munich has yet to recover from her visit, and grammar lessons were never so popular as when the German exchange trip returned to London.

As for my second piece of evidence for the defence, as anyone who has ever dabbled in internet dating knows, there is no bigger turn-off – none – than a spelling or grammar mistake in a prospective suitor's biography or correspondence. Yes, everyone makes mistakes and language mutates and blah blah blah, but in the pitiless world of internet dating, it is simple human instinct to rule someone out on such grounds. I've had friends cancel dates due to a simple rogue apostrophe. So consider that, grammar descriptivists. The perpetuation of the human race depends on good grammar.

So when the award rolled around on Thursday night, we all felt the heavy weight of the human species on our shoulders. Our shortlist was pleasingly outraging and the Idler Academy was veritably packed out with passionate fellow grammarians. There were some delightful entries (I particularly like the cafe chain Apostrophe misusing an apostrophe, although that is, strictly speaking, more a punctuation mistake than a grammatical one) and some downright depressing ones. Rowley Leigh voted for Tristram Hunt's incomprehensible speech, but Jeremy Paxman and I both voted forTesco, so it took the prize. Tesco, it may be remembered, was nominated for using "less" not "fewer" in reference to numbers on loo-roll packaging – "Same Luxury. Less Lorries" – and for describing its orange juice as "most tastiest". I suspect this will come as a disappointment to those who predicted that our Gove-ian prize would go to Hunt (he was runner-up) but that's the problem with dismissing basic grammar rules: you don't always talk sense.

Why doesn't anyone believe in public-spirited concern?

 

After I tweeted about a pot of honey not being allowed on a plane, Twitter replied with a puerile display of sniggering frivolity

• 
• • Richard Dawkins
  • theguardian.com, Tuesday 5 November 2013 11.30 GMT

'Aren’t our rule-merchants playing into Bin Laden’s dead hands by their futile displays of stable-door-shutting?' Photograph: Andreas Meier/Reuters

I was on the website of a bank. I patiently slogged through all my details, not forgetting mother's maiden name and name of first pet. With a sigh of completion I finally clicked submit. "We're sorry, our system is down this morning. Please try later." Er, couldn't they have warned me before I started? I did log in later, went right through the whole rigmarole and finally received the bank statement I needed.

I could have left it there but I was feeling public-spirited. Mightn't my experience help them make their website more user-friendly? So I telephoned. A succession of courteous robotic voices led me to an equally courteous human. And now here is my point. I was trying to benefit other bank customers in general. She thought I wanted satisfaction for myself in particular. It appeared to be outside her comprehension that somebody might take the time to make a public-spirited suggestion to help other people.

"May I call you Richard? How may I help you, Richard?"

"Well, I've been on your website trying to get a bank statement, and I'd filled in the whole form before I was told that the system was down anyway. Could I suggest … "

"My apologies for that, Richard, let me help you now. What exactly is it you require?"

"Er, no, I don't think you understand. I've already got what I personally needed. I want to report the difficulty I had, so that you can make sure other people don't suffer the same inconvenience in future."

"Richard, please tell me what is the date of the bank statement you need, and I'll have it sent to you."

"No, I already have the bank statement I need. I'm trying to help other people in my situation … "

I might have been speaking Volapük. She simply didn't understand a word of Voluntary-Public-Spirit.

On another occasion, in 2009, I was commissioned by Prospect Magazine to fill its regular slot on "If I ruled the world". I wrote it on a plane, and began with an incident I'd just witnessed at Heathrow security. A young mother was distraught that the tub of ointment she needed for her child's eczema had been seized.

"The security man was polite but firm. She wasn't even permitted to spoon a reduced quantity into a smaller jar. I couldn't grasp what was wrong with that suggestion, but the rules were unbendable. The official offered to fetch his supervisor, who came and was equally polite, but she too was bound by the rulebook's hoops of steel.

"There was nothing I could do, and it was no help that I recommended a website where a chemist explains, in delightfully comedic detail, what it would actually take to manufacture a workable bomb from binary liquid ingredients, labouring for several hours in the aircraft loo, using copious quantities of ice in relays of champagne coolers helpfully supplied by the cabin staff.

"The prohibition against taking more than very small quantities of liquids or unguents on planes is demonstrably ludicrous … one of those 'Look at us, we're taking decisive action' displays."

Once again my motive was public-spirited, and now there was no question of self-interest because the fated ointment wasn't mine. The woman's experience had been a particular peg on which to hang a general point. Unfortunately, when I returned to make a similar point on Twitter this week, I foolishly chose a peg that was vulnerable to misinterpretation as self-interested. And the result was a puerile display of sniggering frivolity such as only Twitter can serve up.

This time the dangerous explosive was not eczema lotion but honey. And it belonged to me, at Edinburgh airport, bound for Heathrow with only carry-on luggage. Though the jar was small, it exceeded the limit laid down by the rule-happy officials of airport security, and it was thrown away.

I tweeted to the effect that every time I see an incident of this kind I sense it as a victory for Bin Laden. However calamitous the destruction of the twin towers, doesn't the bureaucratically imposed vexation to airline passengers all over the world mount up to a prolonged and distributed, albeit far less traumatic, victory? And aren't our rule-merchants playing into Bin Laden's dead hands by their futile displays of stable-door-shutting?

But because the honey was mine not a young mother's, my motive could surely not be other than selfish. "Stop whining about your lost honey." In vain did I protest that I couldn't give a damn about my honey. I was making a point of general principle, trying to be public-spirited. "If you weren't so ignorant, you'd know the rules about liquids." In vain did I reassure the tweeting twerps that I know the rules all too well. That's precisely why I'm campaigning against them.

I say nothing of the feeble jokes on "bee" and "be" and Pooh Bear. My point here is the one brought out by my encounter with the bank clerk. What is it that renders some people incapable of conceiving how a person might be motivated not by narrow self-interest but by a public-spirited concern for the common weal?