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To those among the Gentle Readership who had hoped this Wednesday might pass without a prime minister, a Russian warship, and a beef inflation crisis all demanding attention simultaneously: this Author is sorry to disappoint. The news, it seems, has no regard for modest expectations.
Lord Starmer, speaking from the lofty heights of the G7 summit, has issued what one might charitably describe as a strongly worded invitation to Lord Burnham: should the latter win Thursday’s Makerfield by-election and thereby secure a seat in the Grand Assembly, he would do well to concern himself with finding a new Greater Manchester mayor rather than sharpening his leadership ambitions. The prime minister has even dangled a cabinet post as incentive – a gesture so transparently anxious that one almost felt embarrassed on his behalf. Meanwhile, Lord Streeting, who resigned as health secretary last month, announced upon the Broadcasting Society‘s Newsnight that he would be “prepared” to trigger a leadership contest if Lord Starmer does not act on his own terms. This Author notes that “prepared” is doing considerable work in that sentence – rather like a man standing at the top of a diving board, insisting he is merely enjoying the view.
On to the matter of the Royal purse and the nation’s grocery bill. The Office of National Statistics has revealed that inflation held steady at 2.8% in the year to May, where experts had predicted a rise to 3%. Food prices, mercifully, are climbing more slowly – though “more slowly” is a relative comfort when beef and veal are still 9.4% dearer than a year ago. Transport costs, by contrast, are galloping ahead at 6.8% annually, which means that the journey to purchase one’s expensive steak now costs nearly as much as the steak itself. Analysts suggest the peace deal between the American Colonies and Persia may soften future increases. This Author shall believe it when the butcher’s bill says otherwise.
And now, Gentle Reader, for the most improbable tale of the day – which is saying something. A retired British couple, Jane and Alan Kelvey, were sailing some 23 miles off the Isle of Wight in their yacht on Tuesday when a Muscovite frigate, the Admiral Grigorovich, took a spirited dislike to their proximity. Having exhausted its repertoire of horn blasts, the warship’s crew proceeded to fire small arms into the air by way of encouragement. The Kelveys, admirably composed, describe the experience as “surreal” – a word that suggests they may have rather more sangfroid than most people confronted with a Russian naval vessel expressing its feelings through gunfire. Lord Starmer called the incident “reckless”; the War Office called it “isolated”; Muscovy‘s own defence ministry called it perfectly routine. One wonders what, precisely, the un-routine version looks like. This Author shall be taking her summer sailing holiday somewhere considerably more inland.
In news that obliges this Author to set aside any inclination toward levity, Jeremy Clarkson has revealed, in the latest episode of his farming programme released this very Wednesday, that he has been diagnosed with prostate cancer. He describes it as aggressive but caught early, and confirmed that a portion of his prostate has been removed. To his co-stars Kaleb Cooper and Charlie Ireland – visibly shaken – he offered the brisk assurance: “I promise I’ll be fine.” The series ends with him in a hospital bed, signing off with characteristic defiance: should the treatment succeed, he will return for a sixth series; should it not, he will not. This Author, who has been known to raise an eyebrow at the man, raises it now in nothing but sincere good wishes. The nation, it turns out, is rather fonder of him than it sometimes admits.
Finally, Lord Starmer has declared that under-16s shall be banned from the digital salons from next spring, in the name of child safety. A young gentleman of fifteen named Ziame Stewart – a rising singer and dancer who has built his fledgling career upon precisely these platforms – protests that the ban would have smothered the careers of Justin Bieber and Billie Eilish in their cribs. His argument is not without merit. The prime minister, for his part, is not prepared to compromise on the safety and happiness of the nation’s children – a sentiment that sounds unimpeachable until one reflects that the children in question have opinions, posting schedules, and fan bases rather more robust than most cabinet ministers. The digital salons giveth, and the Grand Assembly, it seems, is determined to taketh away.
I am, as ever, your most devoted observer – Lady Whistledown.