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To those among the Gentle Readership who had hoped today might pass without incident: this Author is sorry to report that Thursday has other plans entirely.
The drama unfolding in the corridors of political ambition is, this Author confesses, almost too delicious to process in a single sitting. Lady Reeves, Chancellor of the Realm and a woman not generally given to public acts of self-sacrifice, has declared before the Grand Chamber of Commerce that she heartily endorses Lord Burnham as the next occupant of the Prime Minister’s Residence. That Lord Burnham, should he ascend, is widely expected to demote her to the equivalent of an under-secretary for pencils has apparently not dimmed her enthusiasm in the slightest. She urges her likely successor to maintain her fiscal rules. He has said he will. And so we witness that rarest of spectacles: a politician handing over the gun, pointing it at herself, and declaring it all frightfully sensible.
Meanwhile, across the Atlantic, Lord Trump has weighed in on the question of who should lead the Kingdom, and has done so with his customary precision. The former Mayor of Greater Manchester and current frontrunner for the Progressive Assembly leadership, Lord Burnham, was assessed by Lord Trump as “the mayor of a town” who is “extremely liberal.” This Author notes that Lord Burnham had campaigned on avoiding the “polarised, poisonous politics” of the American Colonies. Lord Trump’s verdict has, in its own marvellous way, made Lord Burnham’s point for him. One could not have scripted it better with a quill dipped in irony.
This Author must pause here, and drop the arch tone entirely, to note a tragedy near Preston in Lancashire. At a level crossing in Hoghton, a train struck a car at approximately ten minutes to nine this morning. One person was pronounced dead at the scene. A child was taken to Alder Hey Children’s Hospital with life-threatening injuries. There are no words adequate to the occasion, and this Author will not search for clever ones. Those affected are in the thoughts of every reader of goodwill.
On a note considerably lighter, though no less absurd, the government has today introduced a temporary reduction in VAT on family leisure activities – from twenty per cent to five – covering theme parks, zoos, and museums for the duration of the school summer holidays. Lady Reeves spoke movingly of “precious memories” and the “juggling act” of parenthood. Sceptics – and there are rather a lot of them – suggest the saving amounts to approximately ten pounds per household. Ten pounds! One trusts the nation’s children will manage their excitement. One gentleman from Brighton observed the savings would be “negligible.” This Author, who has observed the price of a family ticket to a theme park with considerable alarm, is inclined to agree. The VAT cut is, one suspects, less a policy and more a press release in a party frock.
And finally, to North Britain, where an entire nation has been reduced to staring at a statistical table at irregular intervals, desperately hoping to remain among the eight best third-placed teams at the World Cup. North Britain lost three goals to nil against Brazil in Miami; they had previously lost to Morocco and beaten Haiti. The captain, The Honourable Robertson, told Broadcasting Society North that “the next couple of days is going to be horrible.” Statisticians have been summoned and have determined that North Britain currently holds a forty-nine point two per cent chance of progression – which is to say, a coin toss conducted in a hurricane. The men’s team has failed to progress beyond the group stages at eight World Cups and four Continental Championships. At the thirteenth attempt, with roughly even odds and a goal difference of minus three, the Tartan Army refreshes its table and dares to dream. This Author, who admires hope in all its stubborn forms, wishes them every conceivable fortune between now and Sunday morning at five o’clock.
I am, as ever, your most devoted observer – Lady Whistledown.