The Critic

FREE TOTE! SUBSCRIBE TO THE CRITIC PRINT & DIGITAL EDITIONS PLUS A COMPLIMENTARY TOTE BAG Save a huge 86% off the cover price! For just £5 you will receive an annual subscription to The Critic print and digital editions and we will send you a complimentary tote bag too! Subscribe today for just £5 and you will get: ● 5 issues of The Critic magazine● Full access to digital editions● A complimentary tote bag● An 86% saving on the shop price● Free delivery to your door Never miss an issue! Simply subscribe today to The Critic for a good read in the comfort of your home. Visit thecritic.imbmsubscriptions.com/AUG22 or call 01293 312250 quoting AUG22 T&C’S: CLOSING DATE FOR ORDERS IS 30TH SEPTEMBER 2022. THE PRICE SHOWN IS A UK DIRECT DEBIT OFFER. YOUR SUBSCRIPTION WILL BEGIN WITH…

IN RESPONSE TO THE YALE HISTORIAN Timothy Snyder declaring, “This war ends when Ukraine wins”, Critic contributor Sumantra Maitra asked, “what does ‘win’ mean in this context?” Henry Kissinger, as elliptical as ever at 99, was still clear enough that the best “win” Ukraine is getting out of Russia’s invasion is not losing any more. “At no point”, the former US Secretary of State explained, “did I say that Ukraine should give up any territory. I said the logical dividing line for a ceasefire is the status quo ante.” Whatever worldly imprecision Kissinger meant for his successors to contemplate in terms of front lines on maps, his advice was directly for them, and only indirectly for Ukraine’s leaders. The time when Britain was in America’s place today will soon be beyond living memory:…

DOWN THE YEARS Twickenham’s attraction has altered. The last time I went (and the time before and the time before that) the best of the day was the car park picnic. Picnics in drizzly car parks ought to be miserable. However, should the dishes have been prepared by a master such as Pierre Koffmann and the wines imported by Yapp Brothers, then the occasion becomes an ad hoc regale. And then off we trudge, not particularly willingly, with the Barbour’d hordes to watch a game of set-plays, man mountains, butch choreography, gain lines, “hits” and rules which no one, especially these days the referees, seems to understand. As a spectacle, rugby union has vastly diminished. Where does a ruck end? When is a maul a brawl? The debt to American football is…

A LIGHT ON PROROGATION Patrick Lawrence’s article on the Supreme Court’s prorogation decision is welcome (“ERROR OF JUDGMENT”, JUNE). As he notes, the Supreme Court’s analysis of justiciability plainly conflated the existence of the power to prorogue with the manner of its exercise. By requiring the government to have “reasonable justification” to exercise the prerogative power, the decision will surely now render other uses of the prerogative a matter for the courts. The government would likely have had more success if it had acted more honestly. The stated advice to the Queen that five weeks’ prorogation was required to write a Queen’s Speech was patently disingenuous. If, as Lawrence observes, the prime minister’s advice had made it clear why high policy required the prorogation, he would at least have forced the…

BORIS JOHNSON WILL go down in history as a prime minister who played fast and loose with the rule of law. That’s a much broader concept than merely committing a criminal offence — though Johnson acknowledged having done that, too, by accepting a fixed penalty notice in April for breach of his own government’s lockdown regulations. In August 2019, weeks after he arrived in Downing Street, the prime minister advised the Queen to suspend parliament for an unprecedented five weeks. A month later, the Supreme Court found this unlawful. Some in government thought the court’s judgment was poorly reasoned. But Johnson’s attempt to govern without parliamentary scrutiny showed a lack of respect for constitutional conventions that was to be repeated throughout his time in office. HIS PREFERRED BREXIT DEAL left Northern Ireland outside…

In arcadia ego FOR THE LAST 20 YEARS, every summer has involved a week in Scarborough to visit my husband’s family. It’s a habit that has accrued its own traditions through repetition. A barbecue at a chalet on the North Bay. A trip to the chrome-plated ice cream parlour on South Bay where my (now adult) nephew will get a “mega” (a foot-long cone containing all the award-winning flavours, which he’s somehow never been defeated by). Fish and chips, of course. A compulsory dip in the North Sea, regardless of how cold it is. (This year, pre-heatwave, it was a punishing 12 degrees in the water, just 14 on shore. I plunged in and then ran back to the safety of my cardigan.) The British seaside has gained a few shabby chic…