Britain has developed a curious surplus of weathercocks. They occupy television studios, ministerial offices, think tanks, conference platforms and occasionally entire front benches. They swivel magnificently. Every breeze receives immediate acknowledgement. Every passing gust of public opinion produces a fresh adjustment. Every opinion poll sends another metallic creak echoing across Westminster like a church steeple caught in a North Sea gale. The country has become crowded with men and women who can detect a shift in public sentiment from three counties away, yet somehow remain incapable of explaining where the nation ought to be heading.

Image by: Knelstrom Media Authority Dies When Orders Become Fantasy By Martin Foskett, Reporter PUBLISHED: UPDATED: There exists a particular species of commander who mistakes volume for legitimacy, ambition for capacity, and shouting for strategy. This specimen thrives briefly, dazzles foolishly, and collapses spectacularly. History is littered with the bones of their empires. The fatal