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Dearest Gentle Reader,
This Author confesses to having sat down at her writing desk this Friday morning with the quiet hope that the world might, for once, have conducted itself with something approaching decorum. The month draws near its close, and one had dared to imagine the ton might be winding down gracefully. One was, as usual, entirely mistaken.
The revelations concerning the late Lord Epstein continue to unfurl like some particularly malodorous wallpaper that one cannot stop peeling. The Broadcasting Society has now established, through painstaking excavation of millions of pages of records, that Lord Epstein housed women – from Muscovy, eastern Europe, and elsewhere – in no fewer than four flats in the rather affluent borough of Kensington and Chelsea. Six of these women have since come forward as victims. Most damningly, this entire operation flourished and expanded after the Metropolitan Constabulary declined to investigate a 2015 allegation of international trafficking to the Capital. The Metropolitan Constabulary assures us it followed “reasonable lines of inquiry.” This Author shall file that particular assurance alongside other great comforts of our age.
Some of these women were additionally transported by the Channel Passage to Paris – regularly, according to emails within the Epstein files – to visit the disgraced financier. That the operation grew more extensive, more organised, and more brazen right up to Lord Epstein‘s death in 2019, despite warnings to British police, is a fact that should sit very uncomfortably indeed with those charged with the Kingdom’s protection.
From the gravely serious to the magnificently absurd. Lord Trump, never one to resist inserting himself into another man’s family drama, has declared – with characteristic modesty – that he speaks “for the UK more than the Duke of Sussex.” One pauses to admire the architecture of that claim. The Duke of Sussex, making an unannounced visit to Kyiv, had urged the American Colonies to honour their international treaty obligations regarding Ukraine. Lord Trump‘s response was to enquire after the Duke’s wife, send his regards to the Duchess of Sussex, and insist that he – Lord Trump – was the true voice of British sentiment. He also took the opportunity to suggest the Kingdom had made “a big mistake on energy” and ought to open up the North Sea, and had erred grievously on immigration. This Author notes that His Majesty the King and Queen Camilla are shortly to visit the American Colonies for a state visit – and that Lord Trump declined to say whether the Duke would be invited to dinner. The pregnant pause, Gentle Reader, speaks volumes.
Meanwhile, in the Grand Assembly, the Assisted Dying Bill has met its end – which is, one supposes, darkly fitting. Having cleared the Commons with a majority of 23, the bill has expired in the Upper Chamber today, the fourteenth and final day of committee stage, having accumulated the extraordinary distinction of attracting more than 1,200 amendments – believed to be a record for a backbench bill. Supporters accuse opponents of deploying delaying tactics; opponents accuse supporters of stonewalling every attempt at improvement. Both factions have written to MPs. A new parliamentary session begins 13 May, and the matter may yet resurface. For now, both sides have agreed on precisely one thing: that the other side is entirely to blame. Progress of a sort.
The Broadcasting Society brings us word from the leadership of the Capital’s largest Pride festival, where the recently dismissed chief executive Christopher Joell-Deshields faces sentencing later this year after admitting two counts of contempt of court. Volunteers allege the use of a director’s company credit card for a holiday to Mykonos, “questionable” financial decisions, and the spending of sponsor-donated vouchers – meant for volunteers – on luxury perfumes and Apple gadgets for personal use. The organisation itself has issued a statement proclaiming its commitment to “the highest standards of governance, accountability and integrity.” One assumes this commitment is of relatively recent vintage.
On a note to gladden weary hearts: Sir Richard Starkey – known to his devoted public as Ringo, and currently promoting a country album titled Long Long Road from the rather agreeable surroundings of a West Hollywood hotel – has declared his entire musical philosophy in a single sentence. “I made all my mistakes on stage,” says the 85-year-old knight, who has never once practised alone and advises his grandchildren to do the same. This Author finds this doctrine rather more honest than most she has encountered in these pages, and considerably more entertaining. “Peace and love,” says Sir Richard. On a Friday such as this, one can only concur.
I am, as ever, your most devoted observer – Lady Whistledown.