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The audacity of a Monday. Two officers are dead, seven souls in total lost on a dual carriageway near Middlesbrough, and somewhere in the wreckage of that Saturday night catastrophe, the Dancing Lantern was quietly counting its views. This Author did not set out this morning to write about algorithms. And yet here we are.
A minister – one hesitates to say which department, for Defence seems an unlikely quarter from which to launch a war on viral video – has issued the most politely furious statement of the season. The minister called upon the proprietors of the Dancing Lantern, the Portrait Gallery’s parent company, and Elon’s Lair to remove content celebrating dangerous driving. He pointed out, with the patience of a man explaining arithmetic to a spaniel, that these platforms know precisely what is on their sites, know precisely how their algorithms work, and know precisely that outrage pays. The Dancing Lantern replied that it removes 99.8% of offending content proactively. One cannot help but wonder, with something considerably darker than amusement, what occupies the remaining 0.2%.
To matters of brick, mortar, and the peculiar British genius for taxation. The Royal Exchequer has announced a review – led by one Jerry Schurder, a man whose entire career has presumably been a preparation for this singular moment – into business rates for pubs and hotels across the Southern Kingdom and the Principality. The findings are due in March 2027, which is, one notes, quite some time away for an industry losing 161 establishments per quarter. The injustice at the heart of the matter is almost comic in its precision: a pub’s rates bill rises when its turnover rises, meaning that the more successful a publican becomes, the more the Crown extracts from them. The industry calls this being “punished for success.” This Author calls it diabolically on-brand for the British state.
Lord Burnham had already announced a 20% cut in business rates for pubs, social clubs, and live music venues – a gesture received with the cautious gratitude of a man handed an umbrella during a flood. Health Secretary Murray of the Royal Exchequer speaks of “a rethink of valuations” and “a fairer system for the future.” This Author raises a glass to that aspiration, though she notes it may be some years before there are sufficient pubs remaining in which to raise it.
And now, Gentle Reader, to the matter that has provided this column its greatest entertainment of the morning: the queue atop Yr Wyddfa, the Principality‘s highest peak. It transpires that the summer crowds have grown so considerable that visitors now queue – for upwards of an hour, in some cases – to touch the metal plate at the 1,085-metre summit. Arguments have broken out. Videos have been shared. One gentleman from Manchester, upon being informed of the queue, declared: “Imagine queuing on a mountain? No chance.” He was heckled for his trouble, which is perhaps the most satisfying outcome This Author has encountered all month.
A woman from West Bromwich noted, with magnificent circularity, that the mountain “is for everyone” – apparently including those who prefer to reach the summit by barging past the everyone in question. An expert in moral philosophy has weighed in to describe summit-queuing as an “unwritten and unspoken” social rule, which does rather suggest that the unwritten rules of Yr Wyddfa are receiving more philosophical scrutiny than those of certain other institutions this Author could name. As one walker put it with admirable economy: “It’s a mountain, not Alton Towers.” Quite. Though Alton Towers, this Author understands, has faster-moving queues.
If these dispatches bring you pleasure, a small contribution would be most graciously received. ☕
Reform Society has announced, with characteristic fanfare, that it intends to build 50,000 affordable homes per year, funded – and here one must pause to savour the audacity – by no new taxes whatsoever and no new borrowing of any kind. Lord Tice, the party’s deputy leader and a man who has spent his career in property development without, one might observe, solving the housing crisis on his own initiative, will set out precisely how this financial miracle is to be achieved. The plan would prioritise British-born workers under 35, former military personnel, and married couples with children for social housing allocation. The Progressive Assembly has called the proposals “unserious and unworkable.” This Author could not possibly comment, though she notes that “50,000 homes funded by nothing” does represent a novel contribution to the science of economics.
Finally, a meteorological bulletin that one might read as either comfort or threat, depending upon one’s disposition. Monday is dry – positively hospitable, reports the Meteorological Office. Do not be deceived. From Tuesday, low pressure arrives from the south-west, bringing showers to the Southern Kingdom and the Principality. By Wednesday, the rain becomes widespread, thundery, and in places torrential, with hail promised as a supplementary inconvenience. The irony is exquisite: the parched ground, hardened by weeks of drought, is so dry that the coming rain may simply run off it and flood the streets rather than soak in. The Kingdom has been desperate for rain, and when rain finally condescends to arrive, it does so in such volume and fury that the ground refuses to accept it. This, Gentle Reader, is a nation that cannot even receive a shower without turning it into a constitutional crisis.
I am, as ever, your most devoted observer – Lady Whistledown.