I know, I know. It must
seem to be one sluggish
day for wit, when Ox-
ford dons take to imit-
ating our darling Cen-
tral Intelligence lads.
Was Freud right? Is all
interest in information
inherently a barnyard
occupation? Was Animal
Farm satirical at all?
Never let it be said,
the Augean labors of
research are for the
squeamish, the tongue-
tied, the twisted, or
hamfisted of the pen,
where smelly gents' in-
telligence is laid out
end to end, for type-
setters to mend.
The unredacted typo is
the least of terrors,
where rectitude's feuds
are internecine. Hoist
a glass to confusion of
us all, our enemies are
bound to know us by it.
reading some of these pages one
immediately detects an affinity
between the savage intestine
feuds of Oxford (and 'the House'
in particular) and those of the
intelligence services.
Geoffrey Wheatcroft
The Spy as Historian ..
The Spectator
20 September 2014©
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