THE CRITIC IS BASED IN WESTMINSTER. A minute’s walk from our front door takes you to the front entrance of the Home Office. Who or what can you see between us and them? Junkies.
At any time of day or night, here is a Britain that ought to shame politicians into silence. Yet this isn’t a problem that stems from a want of compassion: there is no shortage of that offered up. The disgrace here is the criminally negligent lack of order our rulers inflict upon the governed. And nowhere is this failure of the state starker than here at its heart.
What does this public squalor mean? Shit, piss and the ever-present threat of chaotic violence. Foul, unfree streets, dominated by those with the will to do so, while the weak, mild and law-abiding hang back, making their
