Jeremy Hunt, the UK health secretary, has given some hope for a revival of British social conservatism. Over the weekend, he admitted to an interviewer that he favoured a 12 week time limit on abortions. I say “admitted” for in the UK any statement of sexual conscience is necessarily a confession – usually resulting in public humiliation and an enforced period of abstinence from power. Poor old Hunt got his punishment as the entire cultural establishment came crashing down on his head. Someone should let them know that the time limit in secular, socialist France is … 12 weeks (with exactly the same exceptions for health that would apply in Britain).

Given that Prime Minister David Cameron has also flirted with lowering the abortion time limit, we have a paradox. The UK Conservative Party is committed to legalising gay marriage yet it exhibits flashes of pro-life sentiment. Ordinarily, this would be a contradiction. But it might also reflect the growth of a new conservative consensus on both sides of the Atlantic about social issues. Young people - the so-called Generation Z - are increasingly pro-gay yet also pro-life.

I’m making a show for the BBC (due out on October 27 on BBC2) that explores America through its sitcoms. The argument is that because these shows succeed or fail by ratings, they hold up a mirror to American society (and often what isn’t on screen is as important as what is). One thing I've noticed is that while in the 1970s gay sitcom characters were either invisible or crude stereotypes (think Jodie Dallas on Soap), today there are more gay and lesbian characters on TV than ever before. By contrast, the sitcoms of the 1970s were prepared to deal with abortion (Maude), whereas today the subject is a total taboo (Family Guy made an episode about abortion that the network refused to air). The exception is probably South Park, which often satirises abortion as a political totem. When a post-gender-change Mrs Garrison shows up at a Planned Parenthood clinic, she demands that they terminate her phantom pregnancy because it's her right as a woman. Meanwhile, Eric Cartman's mother, worried that she can no longer raise her son, lobbies President Clinton for an abortion in the 42nd trimester.

All this reflects the polling, which indicates that significant numbers of young Americans are tolerant towards gays and lesbians yet uncomfortable about abortion. Likewise, in the UK it is often young people (and women, by a huge margin) who tend to favour limits on abortion. This new generation is “life-affirmative.” Having grown up around gays and lesbians, Generation Z accepts their personhood and wants to see them take the full advantages of human happiness – get married, have kids, commit adultery, get divorced, retire to Deal etc. It makes perfect sense that they would extend that right to “live life fully” to the unborn. Marriage affirms life, hence they support it. Abortion ends life, so they oppose it. Or, at least, are anxious about it. Given that the pro-life young tend to favour limits on abortion rather than an outright ban, it could be that they only extend that definition of humanity to people who look fully human (ie, a foetus past the first trimester). Their views are shaped less by theology or philosophy than by emotional instinct. Social conservatives might find the lack of logic frustrating, but the response is unselfish and human. It might be of political use.

In the coming years, the US Right might see greater bifurcation between libertarians and traditionalists over the role of faith and morals in their movement. However, both will probably stick together out of a shared veneration of life and both will continue to resist government promotion of cultural change (even if the libertarians don’t particularly mind the consequences of the latter). In the UK, the situation is more complex. Britain lacks both the religious imperative and the libertarian impulse that are found in the American Right; British social conservatives have to make a case for themselves and build a movement from scratch. 

One strategy might be to abandon some traditionalist positions in an effort to win young people over to the cause. Put crudely, the British social Right would drop gay marriage as an issue in order to modernise its image and better advance the cause of abortion limits. Such a course would be controversial. There is an argument that to advance traditionalism by abandoning one of its main planks would be both cynical and counter productive. That would probably be the attitude of the vast majority of the Conservative Party's membership; opposition to gay marriage is much greater among older Brits, which means that any move made to appeal to the young could alienate the middle-aged ... and undermine the entire movement. Ultimately, it's better that people are guided by conscience rather than ambition.

Nevertheless, David Cameron’s premiership may end up being viewed by historians as the moment when a new, more conservative social contract was born. Welfare reform, redefining debt as a moral issue and limiting access to abortion – perhaps this government is quietly redefining social conservatism for Generation Z.

I never thought I’d write this, but the Democrats have become the sex party. It used to be that the Republicans were the ones who were unhealthily obsessed with other people’s sexy shenanigans, and although the Democrats erred towards the libertine, they at least understood the concept of privacy. But the positions have switched. In their effort to turn sex into a national issue worthy of government intervention, the Democrats have become the ones who kiss and tell.

Watching the conventions from the comfort of a hotel minibar, it was striking how little the GOP had to say about Biblical morality. Their only big issues now are ending abortion and outlawing gay marriage, but both feel so legally and culturally archaic that they might as well be making a case for forced wearing of the tricorn hat. By contrast, the Democrats were so explicit about their comfort with sex that I was half expecting someone to demonstrate how to put a prophylactic on a banana. The supposed booing of God (technically, they were booing the convention chair) was far less significant than the platform change that struck the word “rare” from its formula on abortion. The move was logical: why would you want to reduce the amount of something that you feel no moral qualm about? The Democrats are cool with abortion now. Combined with their endless screeds on the importance of free contraception, they have crossed the libertarian line and become active promoters of sex. Don’t get me wrong: in the land of the free you should be at liberty to do whatever you like to whomever you like, and sing The Battle Hymn of the Republic while you’re at it. But it’s not within the American tradition to receive government subsidy or get a shout out from the President of the United States.

For writing the above, I shall no doubt get a ton of angry emails from Democrats and liberals. I’ve noticed something interesting: when I covered the primaries and wrote scathing satires about the Republican candidate, I was rarely accused of bias (except by a few whackadoodles in Idaho). Now that attention has shifted onto Obama (our anointed frontrunner), I’m a tool of the Republican National Committee. Never mind that I’ve called Romney a lifeless flipflopper – that’s journalistic balance. But express some dissatisfaction with the President’s handling of the Middle East crisis and you’ve basically come out as a Bircher.

So this week, I’m not going to write about politics. Not one word. Instead, I’d like to review a hotel I just visited in Oxford, England. For the sake of not getting sued, I’ll rename it The Bentley. But anyone who knows it will recognise it immediately...

For all Englishmen who want to get in touch with their inner-masochist, I recommend one night’s stay at The Bentley. The rooms generally go for around £45, but you should always be prepared for extra costs like flea powder and having your wallet stolen. The official reason why I return so often to the dear old Bentley is poverty. Oxford hotel rooms are absurdly overpriced and the Bentley is only a ten minute walk into town. But part of me also comes here to commune with everything that once made English greatly terrible. Until the 1990s, we were a country that suffered appalling low standards of service with politeness bordering on enthusiasm. We once thrilled at noisy plumbing and broken windows; we soundly slept through bed bugs and police raids. Alas, the vacuity of Cool Britannia and the arrival of American brands like Starbucks raised our standards. Today we act like millionaires, expecting “value for money” and “locks on doors.” The loss of our humility is depressing.

Fortunately, the Bentley keeps the flag flying for low standards. When I arrived on Thursday morning, I was greeted by an extraordinary fellow with the ears and teeth of some venomous rodent. “You are too early!” he screeched, for I had presumably arrived long before they had the chance to remove the dead body left over from the night before. I wandered around Oxford’s beautiful shopping mall (KFC and an animal rights protest) and returned to the “hotel” to discover that the owner was in the building. He’s a very amusing man who covers himself against complaints by making it clear from the get-go that he really doesn’t give a damn whether you live or die. He told me that I had a choice between the basement or the attic. And, no, I wouldn’t be getting any help with my bags.

How to describe my basement suite? It had the look and smell of a 1930s doss house, with décor by Fred and Rose West. Lino everywhere, a television made before television was invented, a prison bathroom, a family of spiders and a unique perfume of piss and damp. Some things have changed since I last stayed at the Bentley. Prices have shot up by £5, which I presume was spent to cull all the cats that used to wander through the junkyard into the kitchen. It might also have been done to discourage the use of the rooms by certain female professionals. It’s not unusual to spend a night at the Bentley listening to drunk men arrive and go within fifteen minutes, accompanied by the creaking of floorboards and the slap of leather on bare skin. Well, a girl’s gotta live.

I have stayed in hotels that should’ve been far worse than the Bentley. A motel in Detroit had just four TV channels, one of which was BDSM porn (and after five hours, that losses its appeal). Another establishment in Montgomery Alabama cost just $15 per night and functioned openly as a brothel. But the genius of the Bentley is that everything – service, comfort, heating, violence – is of such a uniformly terrible standard that it feels like a cut-price version of Hell. 

Yet a part of me can’t help but love it. I remember Britain before it got all tarted-up in the 1990s – a country where wine and sex were the exclusive preserve of the French. I remember my gran toasting bred over a gas fire, her ceilings yellow with fag ash. For a couple of quid, she cleaned the flat of a woman called Betty down the hall who was addicted to cooking sherry. Everything was brown to hide the dirt. These women thought nothing of puffing smoke in a child’s face and their idea of elegance was a knitted loo roll cover. My grandmother didn’t own a toothbrush.

For me, a trip to the Bentley is a Disneyland for nostalgic Brits. For those who want to see what the world was like before we all went mad for brand coffee and garden decking, I recommend a stay. After an exciting night of blaring TVs and mysterious moans, I went to breakfast. The condiments were obviously condiments that had been collected from visits to other hotels, the food was ripe and the guest list salt-of-the-Earth. A fellow at the next table kept muttering under his breath, “Fuckin’ ‘ell this is bad … Fuckin’ ‘ell.” As I left, the man with the ears asked me, “Enjoy yer breakfast?” I replied, “It was lovely, thank you.” Only the English could lie and mean it all at the same time.