Why taking offence is Britain's new national sport An organ called Pink News demanded that Moore apologise for what it solemnly called "her recent transphobic outburst." Just to add to the atmosphere of sweet reason, Julie Burchill wrote an article for the Observer, defending Moore and machine-gunning what she called "bed-wetters in bad wigs." Shamefully, the editor added injury to insult, pulling the Burchill piece from the website after it had had been published: a move that was simultaneously repressive and useless. Then Liberal Democrat MP Lynne Featherstone weighed in, calling for Burchill and the Observer's editor to be sacked. I think you may have got the wrong country, Lynne love; this is Britain, not Communist China. So, a perfectly valid comparison is blown up into "a transphobic outburst." A decent writer wrongly accused of bullying refuses to apologise for an imaginary offence and is then bullied into closing her Twitter account by the Monstrous Regiment of the Thin-Skinned. I'm afraid that this is where political correctness has got us. Taking Offence is the new national sport, and the moral high ground is so bloody crowded it's more bad-tempered than Waitrose car park on a Saturday. Dear reader, when did we get so damned touchy? Hey, who are you calling touchy? I'm not touchy. I'm just in touch with my feelings and aware of my right not to be offended by anything or anyone ever. Got that? I think we all knew this offence business had got out of hand when, five years ago, a young lad was fined £50 for saying "Woof!" to a Labrador in front of police officers. Kyle Little was charged under Section 5 of the Public Order Act for "insulting language," though the Labrador did not seek counselling and was believed to have carried on wagging its tail. Thankfully, this week that barking bit of legislation has been expunged from the statute book. It is not the business of government to banish insults. Nor should it be up to the police to make partial value judgments on what might be considered offensive to a hypothetical person. As the comedian Rowan Atkinson warned, the law had created "an outrage industry" and a society of "an extraordinarily authoritarian and controlling nature." I still remember my profound shock, six years ago, when I got a letter from a Chief Inspector Brough of North Wales Police, informing me that he had received a complaint after my appearance on Question Time. Someone had found my remark about "Little Welshies" offensive and belittling. As it happened, I knew for a fact that I had not caused any offence whatsover. I was billed to appear, but had pulled out of the show due to illness; it was someone else who had used the phrase. Furthermore, as I am in fact both little and Welsh, I surely could not be guilty of inciting racial hatred against myself. The stupidity of the police was troubling, though not half as scary as the thought that they had a Thought Crimes Unit writing letters "to make you aware of how your remarks were perceived." Franz Kafka, eat your heart out. We shouldn't need to worry how our remarks are perceived, not unless they threaten a real person. No more than an airport worker need be afraid she will be suspended for wearing a cross into work. This is a free country, and the price we pay for that freedom is letting silly insults or harmless asides roll off us. The thin-skinned Offence Brigade would do well to remember the advice of the great Thomas Carlyle: "No man lives without jostling and being jostled; in all ways he has to elbow himself through the world, giving and receiving offence." Oh, and two small words of advice to all the transsexuals "offended" by Suzanne Moore: man up! If you live with a PG Wodehouse fanatic, may I suggest that you keep them well away from the televisual apparatus on Sunday teatime? Now, Wodehousians are generally a mild-mannered lot, seldom rousing themselves much beyond an appreciative chuckle during their 73rd reading of Uncle Fred In the Springtime. But mess with their man at your peril! Ten minutes into Blandings, Guy Andrews's new adaptation for BBC One, and Himself was reeling off a list of dire errors. It's the wrong sort of pig! The Empress of Blandings is a black Berkshire sow, you fools! Timothy Spall is totally miscast as Lord Emsworth; Emsworth is weedy and boneless and should be played by Jim Broadbent or the late Michael Hordern. Spall is more physically suited to Beach the butler, who should be 16 stone in the buff. Anyway, they would not be sitting in the butler's pantry. Only incredibly rarely in the whole of Wodehouse does the Earl venture into the butler's lair. And what on earth is Freddie doing there? Freddie doesn't even appear in this particular story! As for the decision to introduce farting, let's just say I'm glad we don't possess an air rifle. There is no life below the waist in Wodehouse, unless you count plus-fours. It's a mistake to think you can ever dramatise Wodehouse, who created a world made of words. You cannot film a perfect simile. Shorn of their linguistic brilliance, the stories become tiresome tales of silly asses. As I was going to sleep, Himself read me Wodehouse's own description of the Empress feeding: "A sort of gulpy, gurgly, plobby, squishy, wofflesome sound, like a thousand eager men drinking soup in a foreign restaurant." Twenty words are worth a thousand pictures. I never knew his name, but the memory of his act of chivalry will still be keeping me warm when I'm in my red rubber chair in the nursing home watching reruns of The Rockford Files. In the mid-Eighties, I was on a down escalator at King's Cross when the heel of my shoe got stuck. With the bottom of the escalator fast approaching, I stepped out of the shoe and hopped with one bare foot onto the concourse. Appearing from nowhere, my verray parfit gentil knyght retrieved the errant footwear, came towards me and dropped to one knee. Proferring the shoe, he said with a smile, "You shall go to the ball." Well, it worked for me. If Prince Charming happens to be reading this, I'd like to thank you, kind Sir, for that swift act which brought such grace and - yes - wit into a dreary commute. For a moment, instead of feeling like a worker drone, I was Grace Kelly in To Catch a Thief, with a chiffon scarf and Cary Grant to tease me. How depressing to learn that acts of chivalry are now so rare that, as highlighted in yesterday's Daily Telegraph, women view them with outright suspicion. Ladies, what a catastrophic own-goal! And who can blame men if they hesitate before offering to help with a heavy case, knowing that they risk getting the feminist death-stare in return? Perhaps those of us who are happy to be patronised by a beefy guy, if it means he will lift a double-buggy onto a bus, could wear a Willing Damsel in Distress badge? The decline of chivalry has led to a coarsening in society. Anthony Seldon, Master of Wellington College, is to make a timely call for a General Certificate of Character Education (GCCE). To be introduced in all secondary schools, it would give students a grounding in self-control, responsibility, punctuality, kindness and tidiness. To that list I would add playfulness, which, for both sexes, is the most highly regarded quality in a potential mate. Undoubtedly, a certain playfulness and charm left life the day man decided not to hold a door open for woman. The mistake was to see chivalry as oppressive when, all along, it was just good manners dancing. So this is what dying feels like. That was my thought on Day 7 - or was it Day 9? - of wrestling with the multi-tentacled beast called flu. "Maybe it's swine," mused the GP. "It certainly is," I croaked. Frankly, I didn't care what the damn thing was called; I just wanted my throat back. Friends in New York emailed to say that Governor Cuomo had declared a public health emergency as a new strain of influenza claimed lives and emptied schools and offices. In my house, we had our own state of emergency. Friends left milk and groceries on the doorstep before beating a retreat. I tried to make soup for the poleaxed family, but picking up a pan and chopping an onion was so shattering I went back to bed. Fevers gusted through us like desert storms. My temperature of 39 sounded OK until the Small Boy pointed out that was over 102 in the old money. If you are unsure whether you have the New Flu, here are signs to look out for. Agree or disagree: I find lifting a spoonful of soup from the bowl to my lips utterly exhausting. There is no part of me that doesn't hurt, up to and including my gall bladder and my big toe. The bedroom looks like a giant hamster's nest with used tissues on every surface. Each night feels like an epic Wagnerian opera. I coughed so much that I sprained my intercostal muscles. They call it swine flu because you feel as if the Empress of Blandings has rolled on you. It's almost been worth it as I have lost six pounds on a diet of Paracetamol and dry toast. If you have all the symptoms, God help you. Hunker down and see you in 12 days. Courage, people! We shall fight them on the Beechams. We shall never surrender!