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Thank God for Private Eye. It's been a busy fortnight and I'm catching up. The hoo-ha about hoodies — are we supposed to take this seriously? Yasmin Alibhai-Brown, writing in The Independent (registration and fee required):
… as soon as they have latched on to an issue, New Labour falls headlong into trite, headline-grabbing, dangerously Maoist ideas, thus alienating those who would be onside. The young shall not wear hoodies at the false churches of modern Britain, the consuming malls which only respect money. The Bluewater shopping centre in Kent and others like it, which have killed the human spirit of this country, now have the power to dictate what people may wear - not for reasons of decency, but arbitrarily. Young men and boys and women and girls, too, in sweatshirts with zips and hoods are deemed a terrible threat to the nation.
My sweet daughter loves them, and has just bought two tiny hoodies for new twin boys in our family. Our delicate Deputy Prime Minister has thrown his bulk behind this ban, saying he is scared of hoodies, finds them intimidating. Are we meant to respect these views of the legendary Mr Fisticuffs? Does he respect our intelligence when he comes out with this rubbish? Sure, for some criminals, the garment helps them to avoid identification on CCTV, but for others it is only ever a fashion item. By the way, are they going to ban shops selling hoodies in the centres, too? And what next? Women in burkas? People in large sunglasses and caps?
Mark Steyn in The Daily Telegraph (free registration) blames CCTV:
The British are the most videotaped people in the history of mankind, caught on camera by official surveillance devices as they go about every humdrum public manoeuvre. If you're a grown-up, this might not seem a big deal: you can go back to your pad, collapse on the sofa and pick your nose far from Tony Blair's prying eyes, though doubtless this chink in the 24/7 monitoring system will eventually be rectified. But, if you're an adolescent, far more of your social rituals take place in public - meeting friends at the bus stop, enjoying a romantic moment by the non-operative ornamental fountain outside the KwikkiJunk Centre, etc - and it seems entirely reasonable that adolescent garb has artfully evolved to provide its wearers with such privacy as can be found under the constant whirr of the Big Blairite Brother's telly cameras.
