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The Celestial Empire is displeased. Scarcely has the ink dried upon the nationalisation papers for British Steel than Beijing has dispatched its commerce ministry to issue what one can only describe as a diplomatically phrased tantrum, declaring itself “firmly opposed and strongly dissatisfied” with the Kingdom’s decision. The Celestial Empire wishes it known that Jingye‘s “significant contributions” have been disregarded, its “legitimate rights” trampled, and its confidence in investing here most severely undermined. This Author notes, with the mildest possible arch of the brow, that taking a loss-making steelworks off someone’s hands is typically considered a kindness. One does not usually receive a scolding for accepting a gift.
The timing is, to put it charitably, inconvenient. Lord Burnham is due to assume the office of prime minister on Monday – his first foreign policy headache delivered before he has even located the good china at the Prime Minister’s Residence. The China-UK Bilateral Investment Treaty of 1986 has been invoked, and Beijing has promised to “monitor developments closely”, which in diplomatic parlance means something between “we are watching” and “do not try that again”. Lord Burnham will have to balance the economic warmth of the world’s second largest economy against the small matter of national sovereignty. A warm welcome to government, Your Lordship.
Which brings us, naturally, to the man himself. Five months ago, Lord Burnham sat in his mayoral offices in Manchester, blocked from standing for parliament by his own party’s ruling executive, and proceeded to comfort himself by attempting to poach every significant sporting event in the Kingdom from the Capital. The Women’s Football World Cup final for 2035, a Great Northern Olympic bid, the Ryder Cup in Bolton – the man was, in the most affectionate possible reading, compensating. Manchester has already relieved London of the Brit Awards after fifty years. This Author supposes that when one cannot go to the mountain, one simply annexes the mountain’s trophy cabinet.
Now Lord Burnham ascends to the very highest office on Monday, bearing what admirers have taken to calling “Manchesterism” – a philosophy rooted in civic ambition, northern pride, and the conviction that the Capital has been hoarding rather more than its fair share of everything. Whether Manchesterism translates to national governance remains the question. One presumes the Ryder Cup will no longer need to be hosted in Bolton. Small mercies for Bolton.
Amid the political theatre, the scientists have quietly done something rather remarkable. A ten-year study by Imperial College, following nearly 3,500 men, has found that focal therapy for prostate cancer – deploying high-intensity ultrasound or cryotherapy to destroy cancerous tissue – is just as effective as surgery or radiotherapy, yet produces less than half the risk of side effects. Ten years after treatment, only two men in the study had died from the disease. The results have been described by researchers as “excellent”, which, in the measured parlance of medical science, is roughly equivalent to everyone else leaping from their chairs and cheering.
The delicious frustration is this: the therapy has existed for over twenty years, yet only around 1,000 men per year in the Kingdom receive it, despite up to 15,000 being eligible. This Author trusts that the National Health Society will read these findings with some urgency. The evidence, one might argue, has now been sitting patiently in the waiting room for two decades. Perhaps it is time to call it in.
Now, to a matter of identity most sinister and yet, in the cold light of a High Court judgment, at least partially resolved. A young woman from Aberdare, nineteen years of age, found herself the unwitting face of a four-year campaign of digital imposture. One Elha Mai Weston constructed fake profiles on Tinder, the Dancing Lantern, Portrait Gallery, the Vanishing Dispatch, and assorted other salons of the internet, amassing over 100,000 followers and conducting what the High Court called a “sustained campaign of online impersonation” – that is to say, catfishing on an almost professional scale. The genuine young woman, Sasha-Jay Davies, became so fearful of men approaching her in the street – men who believed, in good faith, that they were in a relationship with her – that she could hardly leave her home. Weston has apologised and agreed to pay a reported £10,000 in compensation. Justice, of a fashion, has been served. This Author recommends it be spent on something very pleasant indeed.
And finally, the heat. It is Friday, and the Kingdom has now endured twelve consecutive days at or above thirty degrees Celsius – the longest such run since 2006 – with some corners of the south approaching a full fortnight of official heatwave conditions. Merryfield in Somerset reached 30.6°C on Thursday, apparently under the impression that it is situated somewhere along the Amalfi Coast. The Meteorological Office informs us that temperatures here are now on average 1.33°C warmer than during 1961 to 1990, and that the very hottest days have warmed three times faster still. The Kingdom currently sits beneath what meteorologists call a “heat dome”, which is precisely as theatrical as it sounds and considerably less welcome.
The record of sixteen consecutive days at or above 30°C, set in 1976, appears unlikely to fall this time. This Author offers this information not as relief but as perspective: it is simply very hot, it has been very hot for a very long time, and those who insisted last month that the summer would be “a washout” are invited to reflect quietly upon their predictions. Somewhat cooler air is promised from the north this weekend. One shall believe it when one feels it.
I am, as ever, your most devoted observer – Lady Whistledown.