The blind leading the visually-impaired

THERE IS a famous urban myth that’s been doing the rounds on the internet for the past few years. It goes something like this:

A friend of a friend was down in London last week shopping in Harrods when the bloke in front of him, an Arab in full costume, dropped his wallet on the floor. The friend picked it up and tapped him on the shoulder to return it. The Arab gentleman was very grateful, opened his wallet and pulled out several £50 notes. “Here,” he said. “You must have a reward for your honesty.”

When my friend of a friend declined the cash, the Arab leaned towards him and whispered: “Well you must allow me to do something for you. Stay out of London on November 11th.” And with that he was gone.

Now it’s not a bad urban myth, certainly on a par with the “David Beckham paid off my mate’s mortgage after he gave up his wedding booking” and the perennial “My mate’s mate was on business in Bejing, got drunk in a bar and woke up in a bath of warm water with one kidney missing”. But it’s still an urban myth – eni fule knos that.

Ah, with one exception. Step forward, The Right Honourable David Blunkett. Reading extracts from his recently published diaries on Radio 4 on Wednesday, Blunkett blithely related how he was told this story by a friend of a friend from Vancouver. Despite being Home Secretary at the time and, one would hope, privy to inside info regarding genuine terrorist threats, he went straight to Red Alert.

“I immediately recognised the significance of the date,” he says. “Remembrance Sunday – a day when every top politician in Britain would be gathered in one place.” Blunkett then got on the blower to Tony Blah to alert him: “We agreed that we couldn’t cancel the Remembrance Day service, but we would have to beef up security considerably.”

Quite what this unnecessarily beefed-up security actually cost isn’t known, but it must have been considerable. How many SAS troops were called in? How much police leave was cancelled? How many AWACS planes were circling London?

So there we have it. For the past 10 years the country has been run by people who are so removed from reality that they are capable of believing – and acting upon - the daftest and most unreliable of information. And he still doesn’t know. That explains an awful lot.

SO WHERE do babies come from? Africa, apparently. Well, as far as Madonna is concerned, anyway.

So now we have the hand-wringing do-gooders and the nagging witches of Fleet Street getting their self-righteousness in a twist over the immaculate arrival of the Baby David. She’s bent the rules, they squeal. And how can it be right to remove a child from its own culture on the whim of powerful pop star just because she fancies adding a brahn baby to her collection?

I think we can deal with this one quite easily. Is there anyone out there – weird-bearded, Guardian-reading, or otherwise – who would seriously argue that Baby David would be better off being brought up amid the poverty and disease of a Malawian orphanage, than he will enjoying the millionaire lifestyle, unlimited Harrods rusks and daily trips to Hamley’s toy shop that Madge will doubtless provide? Is there? Thought not.

We now turn to the argument about rule-bending. Well, frankly, so what? Money and worldwide fame bestows a certain power, so why not use it? If she can get the whole thing over and done with in a week rather than in six months, then why not? And does anyone really think that Madge and Guy will escape the attentions of social workers in this country? Of course not.

The assorted Nanny State jobsworths will already be sharpening their pencils in anticipation of conducting their suitability interviews. I can just see them now, glancing around Madge’s luxurious London pad or Wiltshire estate, and asking: “So, Mrs Ritchie, are you sure you can properly provide for Baby David? And are those disposable nappies I see over there? Next to the Farepak Christmas hamper?”

Mind you, didn’t Madonna have a bit of a hunting, shooting and fishing thing going on at one point? They’re not going to like that, are they? The last thing they’re going to want to see is Baby David riding to hounds while simultaneously blasting a pheasant out of the sky before his third birthday.

OF COURSE, this “blag an African baby” stuff isn’t new. It was a fashion a few years back for the angst-ridden middle classes to “sponsor” a starving child. For your £3 a month or whatever you were told the name of the child you were supporting and you’d get occasional updates on their progress: “Abdulla is doing well in algebra, but struggles a little with his Latin tenses”.

You’d even get a postcard or letter from Abdulla himself, with little drawings and messages, usually just before your direct debit was up for renewal. Then it got a bit heavier. A letter would arrive containing the sad news that Abdulla’s mother was ill and couldn’t afford essential hospital treatment. Perhaps you could help?

Then his grandmother would die, and there’d be no money for the funeral. And his dad’s serious injury that stopped him working. You get the picture. In the end, the charities that were selling the sponsorship were forced to call a halt as the scams multiplied. (Incidentally, top marks to Baby David’s dad for already spotting the free-loading opportunity of coming to visit his son in London “to make sure he’s OK”. Yeah, right. I’ll tell Stringfellows to stock up on lap-dancers and champers.)

O The views of Mr Beelzebub are purely personal and do not necessarily reflect the opinions of the Editor or staff of this website, of anyone not thoroughly sick and tired of the antics of that slut Ruth Archer, of anyone who doesn't think that Helen Mirren is starting to look a bit ropey, or of anyone not wondering if Lady Heather Mills McCartney is hopping mad after her divorce papers were leaked to the Press.