Way of the World Michael Deacon

Traditionally, the police have tried to protect the public by arresting criminals. In London, however, the Met is experimenting with a radical new approach.

Arresting victims, instead.

That, at least, is all I can conclude from watching an extraordinary piece of smartphone footage, filmed in London last Saturday. In the footage, a man wearing a kippa – a Jewish skullcap – is stopped by Met officers in the vicinity of pro-Palestinian marchers. He is then warned that, if he refuses to vacate the scene, he will be arrested – for “causing a breach of the peace”. How?

By being “quite openly Jewish”. In the words of the officers, the “presence” of this “openly Jewish” man risks “antagonising a large group of people”. And the police “can’t deal with all of them if they attack you”.

Let me see if I’ve understood this apparent line of thinking correctly. These marchers are such fanatical racists that, at the mere sight of someone Jewish, they may turn violent. Trying to arrest these violent racists, however, would be awfully difficult. So, to save themselves the trouble, the police would rather arrest the violent racists’ prospective victim.

I’ve no doubt this strategy is more convenient. Somehow, though, I’m struggling to imagine the police trying it with any other ethnic group. Say there were a march by thousands of white skinheads. Would the police threaten to arrest an innocent passerby for being “openly

Muslim”, or “openly black”?

In response to public outcry, the Met has now apologised for the use of the term “openly Jewish”. But the main problem wasn’t the language. It was the suggestion that the blame for breaching the peace lies not with the mob, but with the mob’s target.

One of the reasons Philip Larkin never married was that, in his view, cohabiting made life far too complicated. As he put it in his 1955 poem Counting, “Thinking in terms of one/ Is easily done… But counting up to two/ Is harder to do.” All I can say is, he’s lucky he isn’t around today. Because if he thought it was tough being in a couple, I dread to think what he’d have made of being in a polycule.

Polycules, for the benefit of those unfamiliar with this eye-popping trend, are romantic relationships that consist of numerous partners. For an example, see the latest issue of the New York Times Magazine.

It reports on a polycule in Boston, Massachusetts that boasts no fewer than 20 members. Yes, 20.

Apparently they’re all very happy with the arrangement, because “not conforming to norms” is “empowering”. Well, good for them. Personally, though, I think it sounds like an utter nightmare. For one thing: just think how impractical it would be.

Take date nights. Imagine ringing up a restaurant to book a romantic, candlelit dinner for 20 – so you can all take turns gazing into each other’s eyes. And it would be even harder to arrange a weekend mini-break. Few hotels offer bedrooms that sleep 20. You’d end up having to call the MoD, to ask if the Army had any spare barracks.

Domestic rows, meanwhile, would be chaos. If you’re in a couple, at least you always know whose fault it is for leaving the lavatory seat up or not emptying the dishwasher. But if there are 20 of you, it could be anyone. You’d need to install CCTV in the bathroom, just to find out who’s been squeezing the toothpaste from the wrong end.

The most complicated thing of all, however, would be splitting up. Think how long it would take.

“Rachel, Sophie, David, Melissa, Oscar, Christina, Annabel, Nicholas, Dominic, Jessica, Sebastian, Hannah, Alexandra, Jonathan, Danielle, Elizabeth, James S, James T, Gustavo – we need to talk…”

Tuesday is St George’s Day. An important date in the calendar – especially for middle-class liberals. Because it’s the day when, every single year, they get to put one over on their flag-waving, Sun-reading,

Red Wall-dwelling social inferiors by gleefully informing them that actually, St George wasn’t English – he was Turkish.

For good measure, they often add that fish and chips was actually invented by the Portuguese, football was actually first played in China, the Royal family is actually German, and so on. In short, the message is that almost everything that makes people feel proud to be English is in fact foreign. So there, you silly gammon.

Ever since this delightful annual tradition was established – around about the time of the EU referendum – I’ve often wondered whether the same thing goes on in other countries. Are there French middle-class liberals who insist that champagne is actually Swedish? Austrian middle-class liberals who insist that Mozart was actually Nigerian? Greek middle-class liberals who insist that the Acropolis is actually Japanese?

Excitingly, it seems that we at last have an answer. Two Italian authors, we learned this week, have published a book entitled La Cucina Italiana Non

Esiste – which, in English, translates as Italian Cuisine Does Not Exist. And, among various controversial claims, it insists that the tomato sauce on pizza is actually American.

So now we know. Smugly disputing the origins of your own country’s proudest cultural achievements is not unique to England.

But then, I suppose nothing is.