The little emperors have grown up. The babies of the late 90s - mollycoddled by their parents, spoon-fed by their teachers, indulged by society - have now reached university. Some of the brighter ones are now at Oxford, demanding that the Cecil Rhodes statue at Oriel should be torn down because of his imperialist, racist views.
We shouldn't be so surprised. If you've had a lifetime of people saying "yes" to you, of never being told off, you remain frozen in a permanent state of supersensitivity. I wasn't offended by the Rhodes statue when I was at Oxford 20 years ago. But, even if I had been, I wouldn't have thought my wounded feelings should be cured by tearing apart the delicate fabric of a beautiful university.
Universities are reaping the whirlwind of two decades of child-centred education. That whirlwind has imported imbecilic trigger warnings - when academics have to warn students that western European literature, from the Iliad on, is full of sex and violence. It has also brought the pernicious idea of "no-platforming" - when students refuse to give a stage to anyone who doesn't fit with their narrow view.
We shouldn't blame the student emperors for all this. Their warped supersensitivity is the fault of the generation above - the teachers and parents who have so indulged them. I first noticed the disaster of child-centred education six years ago. Near my childhood home in north London, there is a late-Victorian school. According to the noticeboard outside, it didn't have a headmaster. Instead, Mr M J Chappel was called the "lead learner".
The implication was clear. Mr Chappel wasn't placed in authority above the children but was ranked alongside them. Children have as much to teach the teachers as the teachers have to teach them - an idiocy that's difficult to attack because it sounds so charming; and because people like me sound so evil when we disagree.