DO we need another landmark?

Whether the answer is yea or nay it appears we are about to get one. The Star Of Caledonia, which looks like a firework display, will be the first thing you see when travelling north at Gretna Green. According to Charles Jencks, an architectural designer, it’s a must-have. “Will it be hated enough to be iconic?” he asks. Possibly. To his cause Mr Jencks enlists the Eiffel Tower and St Paul’s Cathedral, both of which were hated in their day. But at least they had purpose. What, prithee, is the Star Of Caledonia’s?

MY old chum, Edwina “Vindaloo” Currie, Johnny Major’s erstwhile chilli pepper, has been given the heave-ho from Strictly Come Jigging. Bizarrely, viewers of this candyfloss preferred Nancy Dell’Olio, who used to juggle Sven-Goran Swede’s unmentionables.

Ms Vindaloo said she was “gutted” to be leaving the show but had no excuses for her foxtrot, which had more trot to it than fox. To cap a bad week she has just turned 65, which scarcely seems believable.

In another millennium, as I may have mentioned before, I recall introducing her to a roomful of prim Morningsiders whom she regaled with raunchy jokes, employing the microphone with an inventiveness not seen since Mick Jagger warbled Satisfaction. Just thinking about it makes one feel queasy.

TO the Oxford Union where in days of yore only those with at least two brains were asked to chunter. No more. Regaling the students tonight with her wit and wisdom was the woman formerly known as Jordan, known the world o’er for the size of her silicone bazookas, the wanton display of which has made her a multi-millionaire. Years ago she parked Jordan and insisted she be called Katie Price. Now, for some reason, she prefers to be referred to as The Pricey.

Witnesses say The Pricey dribbled on incontinently for over an hour, reminding some of Isaiah Berlin, others of Bet Lynch with a touch of Tourette’s. According to her own testimony she is “a rich chav”. She added: “But I’m more serious than what you lot think.” Who ever doubted it?

PAUL Dacre, editor of the Daily Quail, says there is a “liberal hatred of mass-selling papers”. By “liberal”, I do not think he means LibDumb. Nor, I suspect, does he mean “generous, noble-minded, broad-minded”. No, I expect that when Mr Dacre uses the word it is by way of an insult, a liberal being to him what someone like him is to me, ie not something you’d want stuck to your shoe.

Mr Dacre has been giving evidence to the Leveson inquiry into press freedom, in the course of which he also said we mustn’t let liberals turn Britain into Zimbabwe. How would that happen? By forcing absentee landlords to give crofters back their peatbogs? “The Daily Quail,” boasts Mr D, “has more quality readers than The Times and Telegraph put together.” What, you may wonder, does he mean by “quality”? Simply that more well-heeled readers read the Mail than the aforementioned rags. When newspapers talk of “quality” the word is rarely used synonymously with excellence.

Vis-a-vis quality, I am reminded of my dear friend Andra Marr who, when asked by the editor of the Hootsmon why he wanted to work for it, muttered something about “quality” journalism. The editor rose from his desk and stared out of his window at Princes Street. “Quality journalism! Quality journalism! Laddie, no-one here is interested in quality journalism. D’you not understand? It’s over. It’s all over ...”

SIMON Heffer, the carrot-topped, choleric columnist, says Liam Fox is toast. He has turned out to be right. Mr Heffer is a fan of the urbane Mr Fox who, before his marriage, was widely reputed to be something of a boulevardier. Could he be gay? they asked in Westminster’s Gossips’ Corner. Or rampantly heterosexual? Or a bit of both? No replies worth listening to were forthcoming.

Now when mention is made of Adam Werritty the word “friend” is invariably cloaked with inverted commas. What are we to make of this? That this friendship was false, that just because Mr Werritty was Mr Fox’s best man it doesn’t mean to say that they were bosom buddies? Or that they were “friends” in the nudge-nudge, wink-wink sense?

Then there is the question of the young man who was staying in Mr Fox’s flat when it was mysteriously burgled. Who is this young man and why has his name not been leaked to the press so we can rake over in intimate detail every aspect of his hitherto hidden life?

Meanwhile we are told that Mr Werritty’s “lavish” lifestyle was paid for by wealthy individuals who shared his and Mr Fox’s “world view”. In short, they’re unelected neocons who think Israel is wonderful. Is this any way to run a department on which Auchtermuchty and other vulnerable hamlets depend for their security?

Mr Fox’s friends said that he should be kept in post “for the good of the country” when the opposite was surely the case. Isn’t Fox-hunting spiffing! Tally-ho!

THE latest addition to my vocabulary is “sodcasting”. Sodcasters are those tubes who travel by public transport listening to music which seeps out of their headphones and into the ether, to mass annoyance.

Sodcasting, of course, is a modern phenomenon, a symptom, say some, of the general decline in behavioural standards. Sodcasters don’t give a toss about anyone else; all they’re interested in is filling their lugs with mince. Who cares if it affects you and me? Get a life!

Contrary to common belief, however, Britain is still by and large a civil society. I know this because a think tank, The Young Foundation, says it is so in a new report titled Charm Offensive.

Moreover, the YF says that young people are more civil than we may think. I agree. The other evening some young people attempted to set fire to a swing in our nearby park. When a neighbour suggested this was not such a clever thing to do a teenage girl came over and politely apologised on behalf of her and her friends. “But what else is there to do around here?” she asked sweetly.