It seems fitting that my first post to EINY concerns the fulfillment yesterday of Tony Blair’s promise to change the rules of the game with respect to Britain’s historic tolerance of radical Islamists. In releasing a list of newly-punishable offenses, the British Home Office ignored the cautionary note sounded last week by Geoffrey Stone in the New York Times, which argued that a distinction should be drawn between glorification of terrorist violence and outright incitement. Instead, the Brits have proscribed fomenting, justifying or glorifying terrorist violence “in furtherance of particular beliefs,” whatever that means. If it’s just for the hell of it, then no problem?

Outlawing the justification of terrorist violence is a fairly significant abrogation of freedom of speech, but perhaps a necessary one. It is now apparently illegal in the UK to express the view that the London bombers, or Palestinian terrorists for that matter, are motivated by legitimate grievances. It will be interesting to see how these laws are interpreted by the courts. Even more interesting, is that the list applies only to foreign nationals, who can be deported for committing them.

So, it’s ok to continue to foment terrorist violence or urge understanding for oppressed Palestinians who blow up busses if you happen to be, say, Gorgeous George Galloway, but you can now be deported if you’re Omar Bakri Mohammed. I actually think the distinction is permissible. For an explanation of why, click here.

Here’s a story about the Korean War: a group of British soldiers were under attack from a Chinese force. The British were outnumbered, surrounded, trying to hold an indefensible position. Whatever the details, the situation was dire. The British commanding officer radioed for reinforcements, explaining that he and his chaps were in a bit of a tight spot. The request for help was received by some Americans, who were close enough and in great enough numbers to come to the rescue. Despite this, they arrived too late and discovered most of their allies slaughtered.

This story is usually carted out to illustrate the language divide that separates the two nations, but I think it’s about more than just pants and trousers. Whoever received that message didn’t misunderstand its content, they misunderstood its tone; they missed the urgency. After all, when an American officer is under attack and is terrified that his men are about to be blown up and shot to pieces he shouts down the radio about asses getting whooped and things being FUBAR (I know Paul doesn’t like swearing in his blog so to explain: the last three words of that acronym are ‘beyond all recognition’ . Also, it may be a phrase from Vietnam but the point is still sound). A tight spot, for an American officer, is two burst tires on his jeep, not imminent destruction.

The point I’m lumbering towards here is that the British aren’t more brave or more calm than their American counterparts, they’re just more ironic. Emotions might be embarrassing to a British person but we’ve still got to express them, so we step to one side and point them out as we would an interestingly shaped hedge. This was demonstrated in every vox pop after the London bombings: we heard a calm description of a flash of light, a loud bang, screaming and it all being rather frightening. The odd thing is that these people weren’t pretending to not be scared. If you’d asked ‘But weren’t you terrified out of your wits?’ they would have answered ‘Yes, of course, it was absolutely dreadful’. You might have thought they were having you on but that would be to misunderstand the subdued tone of their response.

I was in London two weeks ago and everyone told me they were afraid to get on the tube, and that the atmosphere was strange and unsettling but frankly I didn’t feel it, commuting in the miniscule trains along with everyone else. There was less of a police presence than here in New York and I didn’t notice anyone with a rucksack attracting attention. I’m sure people who’d been in town for both sets of bombings still felt their disquiet but they had already begun to step to one side of it, a death-shaped puddle on the way to work.

No. Not him! Me. I’m the best man. That’s the groom.

I’m still on holiday—currently in St Saud, France, where I shall be the best man at my good friend Aidan Kemsley’s (pictured) wedding, this Saturday.

About one week ago I warned the groom that unless he had at least a draft of his speech ready by the time I arrived, I would be forced to post an incriminating photograph from the stag do (batchelor party). He failed. I have been forced to carry out my threat.

Aidan, I shall not warn you again. Next time, it will be a video file!

(P.S. thanks to the EiNY contributors who are doing sterling work. Keep it up!)

Between mind-numbing shows about interior design and car makeovers on The Learning Channel, I happened to catch an inspiring documentary, The Boy Whose Skin Fell Off, the touching story of Jonny Kennedy, a English fellow who was born with a rare genetic disorder called dystrophic epidermolysis bullosa, which caused his skin to fall off for the duration of his life. Despite a lifetime of suffering, Jonny maintained a positive attitude and sense of humor through it all. I recommend watching it if you can. The show even has subtitles for those who cannot understand Jonny’s English accent. And you get to witness a really awkward funeral service with Jonny’s favorite Queen song blaring in the background.

Jonny is not to be confused with Rubber Johnny, even though they sort of look and sound the same.