The most edifying feature of our reluctant election here in the United Kingdom is the welcome tempering of that modern scourge—the three-month Christmas. There is no time for gaudy festive jingles or silly hats. Instead, we British have engorged on an all-you-can-eat buffet of political crazies, weirdos, strangelings, and madpeople. In an orgy so lurid,
Just one week has passed during the most substantial election perhaps ever. And, already a confirmed fatality. Not a real one. Nor a significant one. But, a fatality nonetheless. That fatality is me. Apparently. The cause of my untimely death? A meme. A fairly innocuous one at that. Yes, modern life is digital. Unreal, in
In a world in which men crown themselves champions in women’s sports, an exciting cultural mutation churns. Turkeys, long considered to harbor a grave and considerate suspicion of the festive season, last week voted for Christmas. A modish progression. After twice blocking an election, and refusing to help pass Boris Johnson’s Brexit deal, Labour last
In a world in which men crown themselves champions in women’s sports, an exciting cultural mutation churns. Turkeys, long considered to harbor a grave and considerate suspicion of the festive season, last week voted for Christmas. A modish progression. After twice blocking an election, and refusing to help pass Boris Johnson’s Brexit deal, Labour last
Boris Johnson made history last week. That history didn’t last long—15 minutes to be precise. After taking over as prime minister just 93 days ago, Boris, like President Trump, was written off by our betters as an idiot, a chancer—he even has a predilection for dewy, tautly-compressed women. The horror! Like Trump, Boris came through.
It is almost a moral imperative to read any book Salem-ed by the types that shamble across the pages and pixels of The Guardian. You just have to. French novelist Michel Houellebecq, l'enfant terrible, returns with a treatise which The Guardian describes as the last cry of the pitiful white male. He has form. Houellebecq’s
Nothing says “End Capitalism” quite like queuing up for lunch at McDonald’s. Then again, nothing makes much sense in the formerly serious country of Great Britain. Those revolutionaries, exercising suspiciously lax working hours, moments before implored all with chants of “Beef equals grief!” Which rhymes, and is therefore, profound. London this week crumpled into a
At risk of sounding like a tiresome Twitter progressive whose made-up child readily espouses the grandest of witticisms, I offer this: My nephew, all of 8 years old, has joined the ranks of contrarians, skeptics, ruffians, and rogues. Or, perhaps, he just doesn’t buy whatever Greta Thunberg and her shameless handlers are peddling. Upon seeing
A couple who named their child after a bougie Middle-eastern dip favored among Great Britain’s woke classes have decided not to reveal the gender of their child. Chanti Annette Humphrey and Jake England-Johns have even kept secret for one-year the sex of 14-month-old Anoush from the knowledge of their doubtlessly proud parents. Yes, the Baba
Certain images possess an unshakeable power. They crystallize a moment in history with greater strength than the millions of words which follow. “Napalm girl” running for her life down a dirt road in Vietnam. The eerie calm of New York City firemen traipsing upward toward death in the Twin Towers on September 11. Another picture,
