If English crime writing isn't very good, why shouldn't a foreigner win the coveted Golden Dagger?

The Golden Dagger is the much-coveted prize awarded by the Crime Writers' Association (CWA) for the best crime fiction novel of the year, a sort of Man Booker for the murdering classes. Last week, the 2005 award went to Silence of the Grave, by Arnaldur Indridason. Notice anything about his name? You've got it. It's foreign. He is Icelandic, to be exact, and, not unnaturally, he wrote his book in Icelandic. Moreover, three other of the six finalists were equally foreign.

Add to this outrageous lack of Englishness the win by the Spaniard José Carlos Somoza in 2002 (I was on the jury for that one) and in 2001 by the Swede Henning Mankell, and you have clearly reached the last-straw saloon. The CWA has now warned that in future only books originally written in English will be eligible for the prize. Johnny Foreigner need not apply. The impetus for this change comes, apparently, from next year's sponsor, a "major book retailer", which, understandably, would rather salute a victory by a potential bestseller than by a translated work written by an unpronounceable. Of course there's been an outcry, mainly from publishers who take the trouble to seek out, translate and publish the best of the European writers - Harvill especially, but also smaller but enthusiastic houses such as Serpent's Tail and Bitter Lemon Press.

But the questions that matter most have been quietly not asked. Is British and American crime writing in decline? Are the two countries that have dominated the genre for more than a century losing it? Are Italians, French, German, Spanish and Nordic authors writing better crime books? (Notice I didn't say Scandinavians, which would have excluded Iceland.)

I've been reviewing crime fiction for more than 20 years, and I do believe that the English (though not Scottish or American) crime fiction scene is in difficulties. It's mainly a problem with age. PD James is in her 80s, Ruth Rendell, 75. Many other first-division writers are in or nudging their 60s. But where are the good young authors to take their place? There are some, of course, but my point is that in the crime fiction field England has lost its supremacy. It is no fluke that so many crime novels by other European writers are occupying shortlists and winners' podiums. The best of them are very good indeed. What is sad is that the CWA has reacted to the new realities, albeit under commercial pressure, by, in effect, accepting that if we can't win the prize in fair competition, we'll just eliminate some of those who might beat us. That can only devalue an award that, up to now, has been considered one of the two highest international tributes in crime fiction.

One adult in four is a binge drinker, according to a new survey by Bupa Wellness. A quarter of the adult population? Ten million of us? Come off it. You know that can't be right. Just think of everyone you know, of whatever age. One in three men, one in five women, is a binger? Nonsense, isn't it? Look at the small print and you discover that "binge drinking" is defined as consuming more than twice the recommended number of alcohol units. Under that definition, four small glasses of wine could define a woman as a binge drinker, and a man could qualify with three pints of beer or three small whiskies.

Obviously preposterous - but it's all part of a growing national hysteria. Ministers have announced the start of the biggest-ever crackdown on drunken disorder. I knew what was coming. Sure enough, there it was, that old standby of worthy, exaggerated concern, the scary public information advert. One of the ads that is promised shows a man urinating a stream of money down the drain; another has the figure 80 in vomit. The ad warns that being drunk and disorderly attracts an £80 fine.

Who are the adverts aimed at? What binge drinker, even one of restricted means, is going to be scared off by an £80 fine? And if you have the money to indulge in leglessness, the advert is meaningless. Are they meant to deter future excessive drinkers? "I thought I'd train to be a binger, but now that I see it might cost me £80, I'll stay home with a cup of tea instead ..."

More seriously, do we know what effect, if any, these public information ads have on whatever it is they are trying to curb? We should be told. There's always a lot of publicity when the propaganda is launched, but I don't remember being told afterwards that the ads have resulted in less drunken driving or drug taking or sexual disease (though I did once hear a rumour about a girl who never smoked on a first date because she had seen this television advertisement assuring her that boys didn't like kissing girls who reeked of ashtrays).

All this fuss about truffles (one was sold for £62,000 the other day) has omitted one important issue. Fortunately I am able to fill the gap. I have hunted the truffle with a pig, and I have hunted the truffle with a dog. I am, in common with several thousand French farmers, uniquely qualified to judge between the two methods.

The pig (always a sow) smells out truffles naturally - the scent of the fungus is sexually attractive to her. The dog has to be trained to do so. But a dog doesn't want to eat the truffle, whereas the pig loves it and will devour it immediately unless the farmer stops her. He has a stick, in France called a cavadou, used to unearth the truffle but also to steer the pig away from it. I heard many a story of how a moment's inattention by the farmer allowed his pig to consume several thousand francs' worth of truffle.

Dogs are also more transportable and less stubborn. On the other hand, they yelp irritatingly when they find their fungal prey. I much preferred hunting truffles with a pig, but the dog is undoubtedly easier to handle. Everywhere in France, the pig is on its way out, and with her, the romance of the truffle hunt.

This week
Marcel visited the Rubens exhibition at the National Gallery in London. "Much more interesting than the paintings of voluptuous women we usually associate with him, but I'm still not convinced he's a great artist." Marcel saw Molière's The Hypochondriac at the Almeida Theatre: "A funny play made funnier by Henry Goodman's performance"

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