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Dearest Gentle Reader,
This Author has surveyed the week’s dispatches with the careful attention of a physician examining a patient who insists they are perfectly well while visibly on fire. What emerges, upon honest inspection, is a Kingdom afflicted by a singular complaint: a profound and democratic inability to label anything correctly, account for anything honestly, or answer a direct question without first consulting one’s lawyers and one’s ambitions.
Consider the evidence. On Monday, No10 North, No Questions, and No More Destroyers: Britain Rearranges the Furniture introduced us to a would-be prime minister who has apparently confused democratic accountability with an optional leisure activity. By Tuesday, No. 10 North, NHS South of Satisfactory, and a Kitchen Knife Loophole That Has Lasted Rather Too Long confirmed that the embedded disgraces of our institutions run considerably deeper than a single unguarded speech. Wednesday brought Eight Years, £18 a Month, and a Defence Bill Nobody Wishes to Sign For – proof that one may sell a vehicle banned from every road in the land and consider the matter entirely settled.
Thursday’s The Godfather of Calais, a Long-Overdue Sorry, and a Summer That Has Forgotten Itself reminded us that apologies, like defence budgets, tend to arrive with conspicuous holes in their pockets. Friday’s From Courtrooms to Kebabs: A Kingdom in Need of Better Labels was, if anything, the week in miniature – a courtroom reckoning, a politician discovering ‘some room’, and a doner kebab that is not quite what it claims upon the wrapper.
Saturday’s The Kingdom Holds Its Breath, Its Pints, and Its Traffic Cones delivered a departing prime minister congratulating himself with the vigour of a man who suspects no one else will, while Sunday’s Sleep Deprivation, Undeclared Gifts, and a King Who Has Not Seen His Grandchildren in Four Years closed proceedings with undeclared benefits, a constabulary in search of its conscience, and a grandfather denied his grandchildren by a dispute over the precise cost of keeping him alive.
The pattern, Gentle Reader, is perfectly plain. This Kingdom labels nothing honestly, accounts for nothing willingly, and apologises for nothing promptly. One can only be grateful that the Tartan Army, at least, crowns its statues with cheerful consistency. Yours faithfully, This Author.