Thickly daubed upon her milk-white breasts was a poignant message. Across the sternum: “Brexit.” Above the right breast: “Leaves.” Above the left: “Britain.” Under both pendulous offerings: “Naked.” This wasn’t an exhibit at the Tate Modern. But live TV. The owner of the breasts, Dr. Victoria Bateman, an economics fellow at Cambridge University,
A favorite Saturday activity of mine involves chatting with a merry band of socialists who clot on a main street near me. Dreadlocked, dreary, and decked in alarming red, they implore every passersby somehow to stop U.S. “imperialism” in Venezuela. From outside Starbucks a mere 4,738 miles away. Most of us drenched in
Just a few miles from my hometown sits the Welsh Rust Belt—the south Wales Valleys. Stamped onto those verdant galloping hills is what remains of the industrial revolution’s once convulsing heart. Legions of coal-dusted men once winched down into the pits, day after day after day, chipping away at the other black gold.
The people who ruined the world all gathered high in the Swiss Alps this week to insist, to themselves at least, that all is well and good. Yes. At the World Economic Forum in Davos, everything is just swell. President Trump wasn’t there because he is busy demanding a wall across the southern
It should serve as immutable proof of cultural decline that “people on Twitter” are regarded as an authority of Socratic relevance. Ladling opinions that once never would have seeped beyond the confines of urine-fragrant public transport, such corrosive waffle now booms through all political discourse. But reading the greatest hits from that symposium
The definition of words matters little these days. This week, a handful of yellow-vested protestors harangued a British lawmaker outside Parliament. The bleary crew demanded that Anna Soubry, a virulent Remainer, acquiesce to their apparently unreasonable suggestion their vote to leave the European Union actually count. They used the F-word. They called her
One can’t digitally swing a cat on Facebook. No space. All those memes. Thickening in their japery. Emboldened, strengthened, armored, by like after like after like. We learned this week that Elizabeth Warren is exploring a run for president in 2020. And she, “Fauxcahontas,” as the jibe extends, is destined to fall stupendously.
I’m old enough to remember when the most substantial event in British politics involved a leader of the Labour Party struggling to feign humanity while eating a bacon sandwich. Ed Miliband, a hapless Labour leader before hapless Labour leaders became a thing, tried to burgeon his working-class credentials by performing this simplest of
Upsetting people named Jolyon or Gaia was the main reason I voted to leave the European Union. People like me—you know, ordinary types who don’t feel out of place in a pub, who drop our Gs, who couldn’t care less for politically correct mannas and other luxuries of confected middle-class oppression—got an unhealthy
If there is one saving grace to pluck from the laughable wreckage that is British politics, it’s that Theresa May, still prime minister, has promised to stand down. After surviving an attempt on her premiership this week, May clings on—her Brexit deal clutched firmly to her chest in spite of the fact that
