Our world is being held hostage by two unhinged billionaire narcissists
Most of us reading the Drone, and certainly those writing for it, will remember living through the Cuban missile crisis in 1962 when for a day we didn’t know if we would wake to see the next one or whether we would be one of the billion human statistics of Armageddon. Fortunately, Khrushchev blinked and we lived to write about it.
Now we have a seemingly permanent occupant of the Kremlin (24 years) who has none of Nikita K’s few endearing qualities, like the occasional smile and that hilarious tantrum at the UN when he took off his shoe and banged the table to make a point. Putin is a very different kettle of stinking fish, a tyrant who has turned a vast and beautiful country into a personal fiefdom, surrounded by billionaire oligarchs, yes men and body doubles.
And an array of nuclear playthings Khrushchev could only have dreamt of.
Meanwhile, over at Mar-a-Lago Donald Trump is picking his top team; Hannibal Lecter in charge of Justice, Harold Shipman for Health, Jimmy Savile and Mohamed Fayed looking after Women’s Rights and Jeremy Corbyn the surprise choice as Defence Secretary. The reality is not much different. We can be sure next year, if we get there, will be a bumpy ride.
So there we have it: a pair of unhinged billionaire narcissists with their iron grip on two of the three most powerful countries on earth. Both men moral-free zones with no friends, only people afraid of falling out of favour.
Over in Little Old Britain we learn from Tim Shipman’s brilliant new book* astonishing details of the shambolic farce within the once great Tory party which led inevitably to this year’s Labour landslide. How’s this for a showstopper? After the Lettuce’s 49-day stopover in No 10, Johnson and Sunak met on October 22, 2022 to decide who should pick up the mess.
Johnson: ‘’Oh come on Rishi, why can’t we just toss a coin for it? No, no, no, let’s have an arm wrestle – come on Rishi, let’s arm wrestle.’’
Six weeks later with Sunak’s premiership deep in the mire, he called his Cabinet to Chequers. Instead of the proposed two-day summit it lasted less than a morning. When they broke for lunch Sunak announced the so-called summit was over. No lunch, though after protests soup of an indeterminate flavour and pedigree was served.
Things could only get worst; Sunak wouldn’t listen and as the polls plummeted he withdrew into himself, refusing advice from advisors who were paid to give it and accused his insipid deputy, Oliver Dowden, of betraying him. He was on the verge of throwing in the towel only to back down when one told him ‘’the idea we should have another prime minister is clearly mental.’’
By April this year the clamouring consensus in the Cabinet and at No10 was to call the election in October or November in the hope of a better economy, happy memories among voters of a good summer and maybe decent performances by England in the Euro 24 tournament and by the GB team in the Olympics. So what did Little Rishi do?
He chose to walk out from No10 to the Downing Street lectern in a biblical downpour and announced: July 4!
All of which proves that throughout the world the business of politics is, well, just business, a way to get powerful and if needed rich or richer, full of not very bright or capable people. Mountebanks. As we used to say at the Express (and in the case of the Express it was clearly an accurate prediction) We’re Fucked. Official!
*Out: How Brexit Got Done and the Tories were Undone.
*****
The so-called rebranding of Jaguar brings back painful memories of the many daft attempts to change the look and lure of the Express. All were doomed, tinkering at the edges and ignored the real problem: lack of serious investment in the once great product.
I declare an interest here: I love good design, I inherently distrust the psychobabble of most design and advertising companies and I have owned Jaguars at all stages of my ramshackle life. So, gone is the famous Leaping Cat that has graced all models since 1950 and in comes a bland and hopeless ‘device mark’ (bollocks speak) of a monogram combining the letters J and R in a circle ‘seemingly blending the upper and lower case characters in visual harmony.’ See what I mean?
The accompanying ad shows weird models (and I don’t mean car models) dressed colourfully and moving their heads from side to side. The words Jaguar and Car are never mentioned. For once I agree with Nigel Farage who predicted ‘Jaguar will go bust.’
My love affair with Jaguars is inherited from my late father who had several down the years. At the age of 19 I bought a 10-year-old Mk 1 Jag of the Endeavour type for those who have seen that excellent tv series and later a Mk 2 of the Morse variety. Along the way I had a pre-war 3.5 litre drophead which went like the wind but had no brakes and required written notice of oncoming traffic lights or other hazards.
More recently I’ve owned a couple of XJRs, in my view the best car in the world. Elegant, 155 mph if the constabulary was on a night off, and room enough for five with a huge boot for their luggage, all in wafting silence. I even had a pre-Jaguar, Sir William Lyon’s very first effort which was a fancy body on an Austin 7 and called the Austin Swallow after Lyon’s coachbuilding company, Swallow Sidecars or SS for short.
The firm produced exciting sports cars pre-war called the SS100. But by 1939 Lyons wisely changed the name from SS to Jaguar and never looked back. That’s real marketing, not the crap we are seeing today from current owners Tata of India.
*****
So farewell John Prescott, a giant of conviction politics and, unless you were a moron with an egg, one of the most likeable and straight-forward. I met him just the once, couldn’t follow everything he said in his rushed mangle-speak but was immediately won over. And as her constituency MP he was much admired by Jean Rook’s mother Freda who was a lifelong Tory.
What starker contrast could there be to the chancers and crooks we have today?
ALAN FRAME
22 November 2024
