Hell Hath no Fury like Jemima Scorned

“He that is not with me is against me; and he that gathers not with me scatters abroad”, so says the Gospel according to Saint Matthew.  It’s a sentiment that finds fulsome echo in the Gospel according to Saint Julian.  You know who I’m talking about, surely you do?  It’s our very own Saint Julian Assange of Wiki; our own – worse luck – because he’s still holed up in the Ecuadorian Embassy in London. 

Apparently Jemima Khan, a former acolyte, recently went to Utah’s Sundance Film Festival, the showcase for independent film makers.  She was there to see the launch of We Steal Secrets, a documentary about WikiLeaks.  Much to her chagrin, Saint Julian of Wiki denounced it without having seen it (Perhaps it came to him in a vision?).  He didn’t like the title, you see, tweeting that it was “unethical and biased...in the context of pending criminal trials.  It is the prosecution’s claim and it is false.”

Jemima was just a bit miffed.  Stealing Secrets is her baby; she executive produced it into life.  The title, as she pointed out to the Holy One, is actually an observation by Michael Hayden, former director of the CIA, that it was the US government that was in the business of stealing secrets from other countries.  To this He replied “If it’s a fair film, it will be pro-Julian Assange.”  Yes, yes; always beware those whose egos have grown to third person grandeur!

Hell hath no fury like a Jemina scorned.  An executive editor of the New Statesman, she took to its pages last week in a major exercise in apostasy and iconoclasm.  Oh, how are the mighty fallen in the midst of leaking!  From a prophet of new age honesty, Julian has degenerated into an Australian version of L Ron Hubbard, he of scientology fame, who spread the gospel of abject devotion...or else. 

How the scales have fallen from the Khan eyes.  She once stood bail for Assange after he was arrested on allegations of sexual assault in 2010.  It was all a fabrication, she was convinced, all a conspiracy, a plot by the Pharisees and the Sadducees to bring down the new Christ.  Now she’s not so sure; now the Swedish women who raised accusations of sexual assault against Assange actually may be worth a hearing.  Most important of all, she concludes, there is no evidence that extradition to Sweden would automatically be followed by on onward extradition to the United States, a narrative that does not fit the Assange script at all. 

I was never a disciple, so I was wise before the event.  I always saw this man as a self-publicising, egotistical fraud, who’s only objective was the greater glory of Julian.  It amused me to see all those leftist guardians of moral rectitude and women’s rights, all the Jemima Khans of this world, lining themselves up behind their prophet.  Oh, no; he could not possibly be guilty of sex crime; the women in question were obviously lying, rape fantasies, no doubt.  Or at the most Julian’s forced and unwelcome attentions were, in the words of George Galloway, no more than “bad sexual etiquette.” 

Last summer the Saint, fleeing those who would crucify him, or send him to Sweden, took sanctuary in the Ecuadorian embassy.  At the time I asked, why Ecuador?  I suppose the reason might be that this banana republic – are there bananas? – is a bastion of truth, justice, human rights and panama hats. Or it might be that Rafael Correa, its leftist president, is almost as childish a narcissist as Assange himself, a little man who wants to cut a figure on a bigger stage.  

About this time Jemima asked Julian to respond to the view of the New Statesman’s legal correspondent that he was no more in danger of extradition to the US from Sweden than he was in England.  Answer came there none.  That’s not quite true; answer, of a sort, came from one Mark Stephens, speaking as Assange’s lawyer, saying that Sweden was “one of those lickspittle states which used its resources and its facilities for rendition flights" - that is, sending suspected terrorists to bad places where they got worse treatment.  Actually, says Jemima, the lickspittle state stopped rendition flights in 2006, a fact inconveniently pointed out by WikiLeaks itself.

My pity always went to the poor women who had the temerity to accuse Saint Julian of rape.  At once his wretched army of left-wing disciples got to work, naming and defaming them on the internet.  If they hadn’t been raped they were now threatened with rape.  Pictures of them were also posted with bull’s-eyes through their faces. 

As I say, Jemima now thinks there may be a case to answer.  I always thought that there was a case to answer. Assange, as I wrote last year, is fleeing from Swedish justice, O. J. Simpson style, which I take to be a measure of his innocence. Quite right, too. Sweden is notorious for its lack of democratic accountability, its biased system of law and its atrocious abuse of human rights. Then there is Correa’s Ecuador, the victim of another campaign of spite and misinformation. It’s simply not true that the country has no culture of human rights and freedom, not true that dissidents are jailed on trumped up charges, not true that journalists are arrested and TV stations shut down for daring to criticise El Presidente. Assange really would be at home there.

Jemima doesn’t regret, she writes, putting up bail for Assange.  Oh, yes, she does!  “WikiLeaks – whose mission statement was 'to produce ... a more just society ... based upon truth' – has been guilty of the same obfuscation and misinformation as those it sought to expose, while its supporters are expected to follow, unquestioningly, in blinkered, cultish devotion".  That sounds like regret to me. 

Hmm, I might be charitable enough to say that there is more joy in heaven over one sinner who repents and so on and so forth, but I won’t!  Assange was never more than an L Ron Hubbard manqué and she was a simple-minded devotee.  I’m minded to quote Kaiser Bill, of all people.  He, in his wisdom, said that stupidity was also a gift of God, but one musn’t misuse it.  Jemima, I fear, is overdrawn at this particular bank.  

Oh, the scorpion simply can’t resist one final sting.  Jemima, the poor little rich girl, writes for the New Statesman, that ancient castle of left-wing rectitude.  This is a publication graced in the past by such lions of English letters as Cyril Connolly, H. G. Wells, J. B. Priestly and George Orwell.  Now, aside from Ms Puddle-Duck, it's a showcase for the likes of John Pilger, Will Self, Mehdi Hasan and, best of all, somebody called Laurie Penny. 

The latter is especially noteworthy.  If ever there is a museum of bad prose and political idiocy Penny Red – her stamp on the world - will be a cherished exhibit; I feel sure she will. Formerly shortlisted for the Orwell prize (poor George!), she was apparently included on a Tatler list last year of the top 100 people ‘who matter.’  My; is Penny what matters? It seems to me that she would be best placed on a list of fashion victims and ugly women.  Alas, this truly is the age of Asses, Pennies and tiresome mediocrity.  

A Nocturnal upon Saint Lucy’s Day

Lucilla Ochoa Peterson, Lucy for short, is a particularly close friend.  We met when we both came up to Cambridge, full of enthusiasm for the same sort of things…and some of the same boys.  Lucy’s mother is from Peru and her father is Swedish.  She grew up in Sweden and I’ve visited her there on several occasions.  This year I’ve promised, all being well, to go with her to visit her grandmother and other members of her extended family in Lima and Cusco. 

Today, 13 December, is Saint Lucy’s Day, the patron saint of light.  Lucy was Lucy when she was a girl!  The Swedes have a rather charming tradition, the celebration of an early Christian martyr with strong pagan overtones.  In schools across the country a girl is chosen to head a procession, either holding a single candle or wearing a candle crown.  Lucy was elected not just because of her name but because she is so beautiful, a lovely combination of Nordic and Hispanic looks. 

She with the other Lucys, accompanied by their maids, all wearing white robes with scarlet sashes, processed around their home towns, visiting old people’s homes, churches and other public places, singing and handing out traditional seasonal confections.  I’ve tried the lussekatt – Saint Lucy’s Bun – and it’s really quite delicious. 

So, dear Lucy, this is for you, my Nocturnal upon Saint Lucy’s Day. Let John Donne, your favourite poet and mine, sing the song of winter’s shortest and deepest day.  Soon we will pass the solstice; soon we will return to the sun. Splendeat Lux Vestra.  You will remember and you will understand. :-)

'TIS the year's midnight, and it is the day's,
Lucy's, who scarce seven hours herself unmasks ;
    The sun is spent, and now his flasks
    Send forth light squibs, no constant rays ;
            The world's whole sap is sunk ;
The general balm th' hydroptic earth hath drunk,
Whither, as to the bed's-feet, life is shrunk,
Dead and interr'd ; yet all these seem to laugh,
Compared with me, who am their epitaph.

Study me then, you who shall lovers be
At the next world, that is, at the next spring ;
    For I am every dead thing,
    In whom Love wrought new alchemy.
            For his art did express
A quintessence even from nothingness,
From dull privations, and lean emptiness ;
He ruin'd me, and I am re-begot
Of absence, darkness, death—things which are not.

All others, from all things, draw all that's good,
Life, soul, form, spirit, whence they being have ;
    I, by Love's limbec, am the grave
    Of all, that's nothing. Oft a flood
            Have we two wept, and so
Drown'd the whole world, us two ; oft did we grow,
To be two chaoses, when we did show
Care to aught else ; and often absences
Withdrew our souls, and made us carcasses.

But I am by her death—which word wrongs her—
Of the first nothing the elixir grown ;
    Were I a man, that I were one
    I needs must know ; I should prefer,
            If I were any beast,
Some ends, some means ; yea plants, yea stones detest,
And love ; all, all some properties invest.
If I an ordinary nothing were,
As shadow, a light, and body must be here.

But I am none ; nor will my sun renew.
You lovers, for whose sake the lesser sun
    At this time to the Goat is run
    To fetch new lust, and give it you,
            Enjoy your summer all,
Since she enjoys her long night's festival.
Let me prepare towards her, and let me call
This hour her vigil, and her eve, since this
Both the year's and the day's deep midnight is.