One reason why any "comedy" programme on Radio 4 is unlistenable is that the "comedians" on it, restricted to a narrow range of targets, are about as funny as putting one's head in a mincer. For generations our humour was based on the quirks of foreigners, something the Left regards as making us racists. Funny, then, that a nation almost entirely without humour – Germany – was responsible for the most notorious genocide in history, while we, the supposedly racist jesters, were the people who fought against it.  Comedians who are not Leftists have more or less been driven out of business. Bernard Manning was martyred in this cause. Jim Davidson is in the process of following him, not because he isn't funny, but because he was a strong supporter of Mrs Thatcher. Long after she left office, the spiteful little creeps who form the "comedy" establishment of this country would get laughs from their bovine audiences simply by mentioning her name. When they became too young to remember her, the words "George Bush" were used to the same effect. That is what Dave is up against.  He should apologise for his slight on Dr Stoate, the undefeated MP; but he should continue to tell Miss Eagle and her sort to get lost, dear. Things in this country are bad enough without having our jokes nationalised too.  The reason we have no growth  There will be time enough to resume the ugly business of politics next week, which promises to be a tricky one for some of those near the top of the Coalition. However, this week’s disappointing growth figures – broadly speaking, there isn’t any growth – cannot be ignored. We know why: there is a shortage of disposable income. Oddly enough, little will change until that is rectified. It won’t be rectified until we have tax cuts, funded by spending cuts in those departments where money is being squandered. George Osborne is said to be considering scrapping the 50p rate in 2013. If he doesn’t do something before then, he’ll be lucky still to be in office.  This column prides itself on its gallantry towards the ladies, and so raises this point with great reluctance: how old is Nancy Dell’Olio? Wikipedia, that fount of all knowledge, suggests she was born in either 1958, 1960, 1961, 1963 or 1964. When she first arrived in our consciousness as consort of Sven-Goran Eriksson at least a decade ago, she was reported to be 43: she was certainly alleged to be older than me at the time. Now, having snared Sir Trevor Nunn, she is 49, which makes her younger than me. Where have I gone wrong? I hope, on this question of national importance, we can find out the truth without having to cut the poor old girl in half and count the rings.  The day we did with majesty  No country on Earth could have organised the Duke and Duchess of Cambridge’s wedding as ours did. We have spent too long running ourselves down as a nation and as a culture, but at every turn yesterday there was a reminder of the greatness of our institutions and way of life, and the unity of our people. Our Armed Forces, constantly in our thoughts for their bravery in foreign fields, executed their duties with the highest skill and were immaculate in their appearance; it was especially touching when the Duke and Prince Harry saluted as they drove past the Cenotaph. The Abbey looked glorious; the music, notably that of Sir Hubert Parry, was superb; the solemn words of the Prayer Book were magnificent. And I hope that, given the almost unanimously well-dressed turnout of the guests, we have heard the last of this absurdity of morning dress being an engine of class hatred. It was one of those rare days when Great Britain was the envy of the world: and it deserved to be.  I’ll take a punt on Cambridge  A moment of smugness enveloped us Cambridge men at the news that our little Fenland town has once more become a dukedom. The last incumbent, George, Duke of Cambridge, was the almost immovable commander-in-chief of the Army during the 19th century. Fighting against all attempts at reform, he was kept in his job by his cousin, Queen Victoria, until even she had to admit that he was past it. He did at least have one common-sense view: arranged marriages don’t work. He ignored the law and married an actress called Mrs Fairbrother, and also had a long-term mistress, Mrs Beauclerk. I am sure his namesake will set a different example.
Had David Cameron been a gent he would have apologised to Angela Eagle, says Simon    Heffer.