The Sting, Trump Style

I've had a change of heart about retaliatory tariffs on America. Hear me out.

The official line is the usual guff. Protect American jobs. Punish China. Rebalance trade. Nod solemnly to rustbelt towns gutted by globalisation. But peel back the bunting and it’s all theatre. The economic logic collapses on contact. Tariffs are taxes. Importers pay them, pass them on, and prices rise. Food, clothes, electronics, tools, vehicles – if it’s made abroad, and most things are, it’ll cost more.

And not just finished goods. American factories rely on foreign parts. They bring them in, assemble the final product, then ship it out. Those parts are now more expensive – and the exports less competitive. A double blow. Costs up, sales down. The workers Trump claims to protect? Left to swing. And he knows it.

But here’s where it gets clever – or at least, revealing. While voters are waving flags and blaming foreigners for the price hikes, the calm hands with capital are getting ready to pounce. The markets tumble. Panic kicks in. Cautious savers, pensioners, small investors – they start dumping stocks at a loss. And waiting at the bottom, with dry powder and a shopping list, are the usual suspects. Hedge funds. Political cronies. The sort who play golf with the people who started the fire. They buy low. They always do. Once the smoke clears and the noise dies down, they sell at a profit – and then have the gall to lecture the rest of us on free enterprise and responsibility.

But that’s just the side hustle – bear with me. The real goal is political. This isn’t mismanagement. It’s sabotage, carefully orchestrated sabotage. The aim isn’t to fix the economy – it’s to use it to get a 3rd, 4th, 5th term (not necessarily for Trump). To turn pain into propaganda. The worse things get, the more the faithful harden. Not with doubt, but with conviction. Failure doesn’t weaken the story – it strengthens it. If the system’s cracking, it must be because the enemy’s fighting back. This strategy is the only logical explanation for the shit-show.

It’s the authoritarian playbook. Break something. Blame someone. Offer yourself as the only solution. Undermine institutions. Mock expertise. Turn the press into the villain. And economics? That’s no longer about policy or prosperity. It’s subservient now – twisted into a stage prop to stoke anger, deflect blame and maintain power.

The goal is not prosperity. The goal is control. And for the architects of the chaos, it’s win-win. If the politics fail, the money still gets made. But if the politics succeed, the mask comes off. It won’t be long before innocent people start disappearing in the middle of the night – quietly, bureaucratically, Kafka-style – under the banner of national security and law and order. It’s devilishly clever and relies on an ignorant base.

And all the while, the ordinary voter – the one this theatre claims to champion – gets kicked in the teeth. Prices rise. Wages stall. Small businesses fold. Exporters lose ground. And still, the story is spun: blame immigrants, blame minorities, blame the “woke”, blame China. Anything but the culprit. It’s the oldest grift there is. Start the fire, sell the water, blame the neighbours.

And don’t imagine this is just an American joke. We’ve lived it here. Brexit, which was pitched as freedom, delivered economic self-harm and left its champions utterly unrepentant. The promised benefits never arrived - because they never existed. Yet the faithful cling on, muttering about shadowy cabals and unseen saboteurs, convinced that every failure proves just how deep the conspiracy runs and how badly it was handled. Reform's poll numbers are climbing as the naiive become ensnared.

None of this is accidental. It’s a business model. Crisis creates opportunity. Markets dip, assets change hands, and the gap between rich and poor yawns wider. And while the public are bickering over statues and bathrooms, the real war – the class war – rumbles on behind the scenes, quiet and ruthless.

Meanwhile, allies are pushed away, supply chains unravel, retaliatory tariffs are slapped into place. Jobs go. Prices rise. The cycle continues.

Retaliatory tariffs only make things worse for America – and play directly into Trump’s hands. They give him the scapegoat he needs to keep the MAGA base angry and loyal. Yesterday's reaction to China's retaliatory tariffs proved that, with Trump saying China has panicked. China doesn't panic - it plans 100 years in advance.

Negotiation is futile. Trump doesn’t want resolution – he wants collapse. There’s no silver bullet here, unless one counts turning the other cheek, to borrow a phrase from a certain first-century Jewish philosopher and mystic. Politicians facing elections, like Carney, might do well to frame the tariffs as necessary action in the face of a bully. That would win votes and flatten the Canadian right in one go - not a bad strategy for a Canadian, but not for anyone not facing re-election.

And then there's the convenient outrage over Elon Musk. The backlash isn’t about free speech or Teslas – it’s rooted in his role in hollowing out institutional safeguards, particularly through his flirtations with crypto manipulation and control over communications platforms. DOGE, once a joke, now serves to erode trust in regulation and shift attention. And yet Musk is paraded by Trumpists as a truth-teller exposing corruption. It’s classic inversion – the arsonist praised for smelling smoke. But what’s being burned down isn’t fraud – it’s the last remaining safeguards against it. Musk isn’t a rebel. He’s a diversion – one more illusion in a rigged performance where billionaires pose as victims and the public picks up the tab.

Trump’s tariffs aren’t economic policy. They’re pantomime for the masses and a raid for the elite – not just opportunism, but looting dressed as leadership. It’s The Sting with worse tailoring and no charm – only this time, you’re not watching from the safety of a cinema seat. If this is the road ahead – stunts, slogans and smash-and-grab economics – then we’re not heading for recovery.

Does Trump know this? Certainly. Is he the architect? Hardly – he’s the chaos muppet, stumbling through someone else’s blueprint. If he gets a third term, would he last? Doubtful. Once he’s served his purpose, they’ll discard him like the punchline he’s become.

We’re heading for something far darker.

The Champagne Con

Champagne is the great lie of the drinks world. It has somehow maintained an unearned reputation as the pinnacle of sophistication, wheeled out for every significant occasion as though it were a treat rather than a punishment. It is overpriced, overhyped and, in many cases, borderline undrinkable. Yet people pretend to enjoy it because admitting otherwise would be like confessing that caviar is just salty fish eggs or that truffles taste like a damp woodland floor.

The first sip always carries the promise of something exquisite. Then reality hits. The bubbles aggressively assault your mouth, the acidity scrapes down your throat and, before you know it, you’re suppressing a burp while trying to look refined. It doesn’t matter whether it’s vintage or supermarket own-brand, the effect is the same. A glass of carbonated disappointment, leaving you bloated, slightly nauseous and wondering why you didn’t just opt for a proper drink.

Of course, the wealthy have convinced themselves that the more expensive the bottle, the more divine the experience. Bollinger, Dom Pérignon, Krug – all names designed to extract obscene amounts of money from people too embarrassed to admit they’d rather have a pint. The mark-up is staggering. You could have a bottle of excellent wine for half the price, a good whisky for the same, or an entire crate of beer and still have enough left over for a kebab on the way home. But no. The script must be followed. New Year’s Eve? Champagne. A wedding? Champagne. Some corporate event where no one wants to be there? Champagne. It’s like some bizarre social contract where everyone pretends they’re having a wonderful time while internally battling indigestion.

And the nomenclature. Good grief. Brut, Extra Brut, Demi-Sec – words that sound like they belong to an industrial cleaning product range rather than a drink. Blanc de Blancs, Blanc de Noirs – what is this, a Renaissance painting or a bottle of booze? And don't get me started on 'Méthode Champenoise' – a needlessly pompous way of saying 'we let this stuff ferment twice and now it's really, really expensive.' Then there’s the absurdity of drinking it from flutes, as if the long, narrow shape somehow makes the experience more refined rather than just ensuring you spill half of it with the slightest wobble.

Let’s not forget the ridiculous rituals. Sabrage – the practice of hacking the top off a bottle with a sword – is surely the clearest sign that people know deep down that champagne isn’t worth drinking. It’s a desperate attempt to inject excitement into something that should have stayed on the shelf. Then there’s the champagne tower, that peak of wastefulness where people ooh and aah as liquid gold spills uselessly over stacked glasses, because nothing screams class like turning your overpriced booze into a waterfall of excess.

Let’s be honest. If champagne were actually enjoyable, people would drink it casually. You’d see blokes in the pub ordering a round of Veuve Clicquot. You’d spot a bottle on the table at Sunday lunch next to the gravy boat. But you don’t, because no one actually likes the stuff. It exists purely for show, a status symbol masquerading as a beverage. The real winners in this charade are the French vineyards raking in a fortune from this elaborate con.

If people really want a celebratory drink, they should at least choose something that doesn’t taste like fizzy regret. A crisp beer, a decent wine, a well-made cocktail – or a nice, still cider that punches you in the brain but doesn't bloat you. Anything but a flute of self-inflicted misery. But they won’t. Because champagne, like so many other so-called luxuries, is less about enjoyment and more about the performance. And so the cycle continues, year after year, as people take a sip, suppress a grimace and tell themselves they’re having a marvellous time.

Easy Rider

The iconic American chopper – all stretched-out forks, ape-hanger handlebars and forward foot pegs – is often seen as the ultimate expression of freedom on two wheels. But look closer and you'll notice something oddly familiar. It’s not just a machine for the open road. It’s a horse. Or at least, it's trying to be.

The thought struck me while watching an old clip of Barbara Stanwyck in Forty Guns. There she was, sitting tall in the saddle, legs stretched forward, back straight, reins high. It was the classic Western riding stance – and it hit me like a freight train. Swap the horse for a chopper and nothing changes. The same posture, the same swagger. The only difference is the soundtrack – the rumble of an engine instead of hoofbeats.

That got me thinking about where choppers came from in the first place. After World War II, American servicemen came home with a taste for speed and simplicity. The big Harley-Davidsons and Indians they’d left behind suddenly felt bloated, sluggish and dull. So they did what any self-respecting gearhead would do – they stripped the bikes down. Off came the heavy mudguards, crash bars and other useless frills. What was left was lean, mean and fast. These stripped-down machines became known as "bobbers," named for their bobbed mudguards.

But some riders took it further. They didn’t just want lighter bikes. They wanted attitude. Enter the chopper – named for the way builders "chopped" the frames and forks to stretch the front end out. The longer the forks, the more extreme the look. The seat dropped lower, the handlebars climbed higher and the foot controls moved forward. The result? A riding position that had nothing to do with practicality and everything to do with style. Without even trying, they’d recreated the posture of a cowboy in the saddle.

Think about it. The rider sits back, legs extended, arms raised like they’re holding invisible reins. It's pure Western horsemanship, just with chrome instead of leather and a petrol tank instead of a saddle. The forward foot controls force you into that cowboy sprawl, hips open, spine curved like you’re riding the range. It’s not about comfort. It’s about attitude.

Harley enthusiasts will tell you it’s all about style. Function? Forget it. Try weaving through traffic on one of those raked-out monstrosities and you’ll be cursing the day you thought looking cool mattered more than making a corner without wrestling the handlebars like an angry bull. But style wins, doesn't it? The whole chopper scene is a love letter to the American frontier – the horseman swapping spurs for exhaust pipes.

Films like Easy Rider hammered the point home. Peter Fonda and Dennis Hopper weren’t just bikers. They were modern cowboys, roaming a country they no longer recognised, much like the drifters of the Old West. The bike wasn’t just transport. It was a statement – a middle finger to conformity wrapped in polished metal and cheap thrills.

The irony? Real bikers – the ones clocking thousands of miles a year – don’t touch choppers. Too impractical. Too uncomfortable. But practical isn’t the point, is it? The chopper is fantasy made real. A horse you don’t have to feed, shoe or muck out. Just fire it up, hit the road and pretend the world isn’t closing in.

Freedom? Maybe. A fashion statement? Definitely. But if you think you’re riding a motorcycle and not some petrol-powered pony, you’ve missed the whole point.

TDS - a Case Study in Projection

Apparently, I have TDS, according to a MAGA. Trump Deranged Syndrome, they say. The implication being that I’m irrational for pointing out the orange elephant in the room. But let’s look at this rationally, shall we?

Trump is a man who’s lied more times than most people have inhaled. He lost the popular vote – twice – but still insisted he won. He was impeached twice, incited a violent attempt to overturn an election, hoarded classified documents, and has been indicted more times than I’ve had decent pints of cider this year. The man is, by any reasonable measure, a walking indictment of everything democracy tries to protect itself from.

And yet, his supporters see criticism of him as a sign of mental illness. That's ironic.

Because if you’re still pledging fealty to a man who wanted to “terminate” parts of the Constitution, who tried to strong-arm election officials into fabricating votes, and who believes wind turbines cause cancer, then perhaps the derangement isn’t on this side of the fence.

This is the real Trump Deranged Syndrome – the cult-like, fact-resistant fervour that leads grown adults to chant “lock her up” while their chosen leader collects felonies like they’re football stickers. It’s the blind loyalty to a man who throws his own supporters under the bus while pocketing their donations. It’s the belief that everyone else – the courts, the media, the scientists, the voters – must be wrong, and only Trump speaks the truth.

And then there’s the economic delusion – the fantasy that Trump is somehow going to hand the average voter a tax break. His actual record? Slashing corporate tax and stuffing the pockets of the ultra-wealthy. Supporting him in the vain hope that this time the crumbs will fall your way is, frankly, the textbook definition of madness – doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different result. It’s not Einstein’s definition, as some believe, but it’s still a decent rule of thumb – and it applies here with surgical precision.

So yes, TDS is real. But it doesn’t stand for what they think it does. It’s not the critics who are deranged for spotting a conman. It’s those still applauding him, like hypnotised seals, who need the intervention.

If you can watch a man attack democracy, lie with abandon, call neo-Nazis “very fine people”, and still say “yes, that’s my guy”, then I’m afraid you’ve got a textbook case of Trump Deranged Syndrome.

And you should probably sit down before someone asks you to define ‘integrity’.

A Targeted Retaliation Strategy

So the Americans have gone ahead and slapped a 10% tariff on UK goods. Not entirely out of the blue – there were rumblings, and the usual backchannel grunts from Washington – but still, it’s a punch in the ribs however politely it was telegraphed. The Starmer government, to its credit or naivety, had been trying the old charm offensive. Lots of quiet diplomacy, friendly overtures, and talk of rekindling that famous “special relationship” – a phrase that now mostly serves to remind us how one-sided it’s become.

The thinking, presumably, was that if we were reasonable – if we played the grown-up, avoided confrontation, and said all the right things – then Washington, even under Trump, might return the favour. It hasn’t. It’s slapped tariffs on our exports anyway. Whether it’s pure protectionism, domestic political theatre, or part of a wider anti-European grudge doesn’t really matter. The outcome is the same: British exporters are now 10% more expensive in a market we’ve long been told was our post-Brexit salvation.

Now the question is whether we respond – and how. Some argue we shouldn’t. That retaliation risks escalation. That the UK is too small to win a trade spat with the US. That we should bide our time, keep negotiating, and not risk derailing whatever scraps of goodwill might still be floating about in Washington.

But doing nothing has a cost. Not just economically, but strategically. It sends a signal – to the US, and to every other potential trade partner – that Britain is willing to absorb economic punishment in silence. That our supposed sovereignty is ornamental. That we’re still, after everything, hoping that if we just behave ourselves, the grown-ups will let us sit at the table.

That approach might once have passed for diplomacy. Now it looks more like weakness.

So yes, we should respond. But with care. Not with bombast. Not with a trade war. With precision. Tariff those American imports that are politically sensitive and economically expendable. Bourbon. Motorbikes. Citrus. Branded clothing. Processed food. Things we can easily substitute – but which American exporters will notice. And every pound raised from those tariffs should go straight into a fund for UK exporters hit by the US action. A practical, contained countermeasure – not a tantrum.

This isn’t about one-upmanship. It’s about consequences. If you make it painless to target British industry, don’t be surprised when it keeps happening. The world’s full of economic bullies. The trick is not to act like one – but not to invite them in for lunch either.

Starmer’s approach wasn’t wrong. He was playing the only cards he had – charm, predictability, and polite overtures. But when that fails - although 10% rather than 20% is a success of sorts - doing nothing isn’t prudence, it’s surrender. We don’t need to match Trump’s fire with fire. Just a cold, well-aimed nudge that makes clear there’s a price to pushing Britain around.

Trade should be fair. And when it isn’t, someone has to pay.

Perhaps the State Visit invitation should be withdrawn, citing security reasons - Charles may shoot him accidentally on a grouse shoot.

Black Beauty Rides Again

It’s astonishing what you can achieve with under a hundred quid, a splash of petrol additive, and a nod from a bloke with a shed. The mighty R129 – my 500SL in its tuxedo of Blue-Black Metallic and sagging dignity – has undergone something of a resurrection. Not quite biblical, but certainly Lazarus with leather upholstery.

First off, a second-hand fuel gauge sender has been acquired, along with a brand new sump oil level sensor. Both for less than the price of a Tory peerage, which is frankly scandalous when you think about what they charge for a new one. Mercedes-Benz would have you believe their sensors are infused with unicorn tears and calibrated by Swiss watchmakers. Nonsense. The real secret lies in eBay, optimism, and a willingness to rummage.

Then came the ASR light, which had been doing its best to impersonate a Christmas tree. It seems to have cured itself, probably out of sheer embarrassment. Either that or it realised I wasn’t paying for another bloody diagnostic. There’s something unnerving about a car that fixes its own electronics. I suspect it now has sentience and has decided I’m enough trouble without adding limp mode into the mix.

As for fuelling, I had the misfortune to give the beast a slug of bog-standard unleaded by mistake. It looked at me like I’d offered it Tesco’s own-brand gin. So I ordered some additive to compensate, which arrived yesterday. A generous glug later and the difference was immediate. Torque for days. I practically tore up the Wickwar Road – not figuratively, I mean there’s probably a groove in the tarmac now. A combination of 5 litres of M119 fury and a guilty conscience makes for spirited driving. The cows fled. Small children cheered. One man dropped his Greggs. In future it's Super Unleaded.

Better still, I’ve made the acquaintance of an old chap with a shed in Frampton Cotterell. The sort of shed that smells of glue, leather, vinyl and quiet defiance of modernity. He’s going to reapply the roof lining to the hardtop, which had been slowly peeling away like the scalp of an ageing rocker. Years of damp will do that. But now the car will have a headliner that no longer flaps in the wind like a mournful ghost. The problem, however, is that he can't do it for a good few months. I asked for an estimate - he tutted and sucked his teeth and pronounced; "I'll have to use the old material, as it will be impossible to match it, and all the foam will have to be scraped off. Well, that would take a couple of days - say £250?" I was ecstatic, having expected a bill of at least £500.

The silver / grey body kit is next in line for paint. It’s being redone next week by a mate at work at mates' rates. Soon the old Merc will be strutting about looking like it’s just stepped out of a showroom, albeit one with tax discs and cassette holders.

And then – the pièce de résistance – the car has been entered into the Chipping Sodbury Classic Car Run at the end of June. Which means there is now a deadline. No pressure. Just the entire town, dozens of other cars, and the looming risk that mine will either win admiration or explode in a cloud of confused electronics and aged wiring.

But still. Progress. For under a hundred quid, some chemical wizardry, and the kindness of a shed-dweller, Black Beauty is back. With a vengeance. And possibly a grudge.

The classic car market thrives on nostalgia. It's not really about the metal, the engineering or even the driving experience, though those are the excuses often given. At its core, it’s about people remembering who they were and the life they lived - or wanted to live - when a particular car first crossed their path.

A car rolls off the dealership forecourt, shiny and new, but its financial trajectory is grim. Depreciation bites hard, the once-prized purchase bleeding value as years tick by. It hits a point where it’s just an old car, barely worth mentioning, let alone cherishing. Yet the tide eventually turns, usually around the time when the right people start feeling a tug in their chest at the sight of one.

Maybe it’s someone who remembers their first car, long gone but never forgotten. Maybe it’s the son or daughter of someone who drove one, now looking to rekindle a connection to a father who always drove that boxy saloon or a mother who made every school run feel like an event in her bright little Mini. Whatever the trigger, once nostalgia stirs, the market responds. Prices rise, and what was once ordinary becomes extraordinary, simply because it carries the weight of someone’s memory.

But this cycle doesn’t last forever. Nostalgia has an expiry date, and it’s tied inexorably to the living. When the people with those memories fade away, the cars that carried them lose their magic. Values drop again unless the car in question has something timeless about it. Being rare or historically significant can help, but more often it’s design that endures.

There’s a reason why cars like the E-Type, Mercedes Pagoda, Citroen DS2 Convertible, Bentley Silent Speed 6 and Aston Martin DB5 remain desirable, no matter how many decades have passed. These aren’t just vehicles; they’re works of art, icons of their eras, etched into the cultural consciousness. But for every design classic, there are countless others whose moment has passed. Without someone left to remember why it mattered, a car becomes just a relic, sitting quietly in a garage or a field, waiting for a time that will never come again.

So the classic car market, when you strip away the polish and the auction-day theatrics, is really a mirror of our own fleeting relevance. Cars ascend in value and esteem not for what they are but for what they mean to the people still here to care. Beyond that, they fade, much like the lives they were once so deeply entwined with.

Making money from classic cars depends on knowing the market and the cycles. The cost of restoring a classic car is high, unless you're accomplishing the task yourself - but even then it's still costly to obtain rare parts. To make money you have to buy astutely and be prepared to part with your heart at the peak of the cycle for that particular vehicle. 

Classic cars are mainly for drinking, not for laying down. In short, this phrase captures the essence of classic car culture – these vehicles are about stories, shared passions, and human connections. They belong out on the road and in car parks outside pubs, not wrapped up like museum exhibits. They’re built for driving, admiring, and discussing over a drink, not for tucking away like some high-stakes commodity. Classic cars are about living in the moment – not waiting for a distant future where they might fetch a higher price at auction.

For me a classic car comprises the many MGBs I drove and rebuilt in my early 20s, the GT6 I never owned, but wanted, the S Type Jag my father drove and the E-Type I lusted over and defined an era (not forgetting the James Bond and Italian Job DB5). For my kids it might be the Volvo 850 I drove them around in when they were small (No.1 Son has already expressed an interest in one), the Ford Galaxy that I find so practical (that'll be a long time coming) or the Mercedes C43 my eldest son drives now in his youth. Certainly not my GT6, nor my Mercedes R129 500SL - although the latter my just enter the net due to it being bullet-proof.

The Fiat Ducato motorhome? Not a chance! However, with the 500SL back on the road, the GT6 progressing and me pining for a post-war motorcycle, planning for another garage is at the feasibility stage. I'm thinking pig shed style, but in Cotswold Stone and a corrugated, aluminium roof.

Fraud and the Faux Martyrs

And right on cue, the jackals are howling. The moment Marine Le Pen was found guilty of diverting EU funds to pay her party minions – a conviction rooted in documents, investigations, and law, not vibes – the chorus of the far-right cranked up its usual refrain: persecution, conspiracy, martyrdom! Apparently, fraud is only fraud when it’s someone else doing it. When it’s one of their own, it’s suddenly all a witch-hunt and the liberal elite closing ranks.

Let’s not pretend this wasn’t coming. The entire far-right playbook hinges on grievance – real, imagined, or outright fabricated. So when Le Pen was told she can’t run in 2027 due to a criminal conviction, her supporters didn’t ask why she was convicted. They didn’t even bother looking at the evidence. No – they reached for the tricolour, wept about democracy, and began reciting their favourite bedtime story: the system is rigged against us.

Never mind that this same system has tried, convicted, and sentenced politicians across the spectrum – Sarkozy, Fillon, Guéant. Never mind that Le Pen had every chance to defend herself in court, and did. And certainly don’t mention that the conviction came not from shadowy Brussels bureaucrats, but from a French court, following French law. Facts don’t suit martyrs.

Instead, we’re told this is a political stitch-up. A rogue judge. An establishment hit job. One imagines a smoky backroom full of cackling centrists plotting to derail her inevitable victory, as if fraud convictions grow on trees and banning someone from public office is just another trick in the liberal toolkit.

Let’s be clear: this wasn’t some clerical cock-up. This was a years-long scheme to funnel public money into party coffers. EU cash, intended for parliamentary work, used to pay National Rally foot soldiers. That’s not poor judgement. That’s deliberate deception. That’s fraud.

But what’s most revealing is the reaction. Not just from her cultists in France, but from her ideological bedfellows across Europe – Salvini, Orbán, and the rest of the hard-right gallery. They don’t want justice. They want impunity. For them, being held accountable is proof of persecution. Law only matters when it's used against their enemies. When it's applied to them, it’s tyranny.

They wrap themselves in flags and bang on about patriotism, yet when caught robbing the very taxpayers they claim to defend, they cry foul and accuse the courts of political interference. It’s not patriotism – it’s parasitism.

The irony? In trying to play the victim, they expose their own contempt for democracy. Because democracy doesn’t just mean voting – it means rules, accountability, consequences. If Le Pen can’t meet the basic standard of not committing fraud with public money, then she has no place on a ballot.

This isn’t silencing. It’s safeguarding. And if that upsets the far-right, good. Let them scream. Let them hold their rallies and wave their banners. Because every time they defend corruption as martyrdom, they remind the rest of us exactly what they are.

Not misunderstood patriots. Not victims of the system.

Just grifters in tricolour drag – demanding impunity for fascists.

The Hay Festival

Last Friday we went back to one of our favourite haunts – Hay-on-Wye, that charming little border town where books breed like rabbits and the local sheep look like they’re halfway through Middlemarch. We went in order to have a Friday evening meal at a local pub that does the most delicious and cheap tapas - unfortunately it wasn't serving tapas that night. 

When going just for a meal at the tapas place we usually pitch up for a one-nighter in the local municipal car park where motorhomes and campers can stay for one night without charge. While not being able to avail ourselves of the tapas, we nevertheless managed to good meal at the Blue Boar (pigeon breast and black pudding, if you must ask - and delicious too). 

We’ve never actually attended the Hay Festival itself – just popped in for the odd weekend, wandered about, picked up a few musty paperbacks, and marvelled at how many editions of Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance one town can possibly contain.

Last summer, though, we were there just before the festival and, on a whim, asked about camping for the following year. By some stroke of luck – or perhaps because the campsite owner thought we looked harmless and unlikely to bring bongos – we bagged a motorhome pitch for this year’s event. We’d heard good things. Thought we’d finally give it a go. You know – embrace the cultural highbrow, listen to someone who once met Margaret Atwood talk about climate anxiety, and maybe queue for an overpriced pasty while being rained on.

Then the programme came out.

What was once a gentle celebration of the written word now appears to have been inflated by a hot air balloon full of media ego. It reads less like a literary festival and more like Glastonbury’s Word Tent had a baby with Question Time. Everyone and their agent will be there. Politicians, pop stars, social media sages, mindfulness gurus – even that bloke who once read half of Ulysses and hasn’t shut up about it since. Cerys Matthews will even be doing her Sunday Radio 6 programme live there.

At this rate, the only person not on the schedule is Alan Titchmarsh – and frankly, I wouldn’t count him out. There's probably a late-night slot involving poetry, parsnips and public mourning.

We’ve gone from second-hand hardbacks and thoughtful debate to a cultural circus featuring live podcasts, celebrity chefs discussing the semiotics of sourdough, and every BBC presenter not already in a voiceover booth. I wouldn’t be remotely surprised if Andrew Tate turned up to lead a “masterclass” on toxic masculinity, sponsored by an app with too many Xs in its name.

Hay has grown like Topsy, only this Topsy wears Gucci loafers, drinks turmeric lattes, and has an NFT memoir coming out. What began as a quiet celebration of literature now feels like a pilgrimage site for anyone with a publicist and a vague connection to something once printed on paper.

Still, we think we'll go. We’re committed now – motorhome pitch booked, expectations suitably adjusted. We’ll duck the circus, find the quiet corners, and perhaps rescue a few forgotten titles from a £1 bin. With luck, the rain will keep the worst of the influencers indoors. And if not – well, there’s always the pub. Even if it’s now hosting a panel on Ale and Identity in the Age of Disruption.

Tariff Tantrums & Tactical Theft

I've said this before, but it's worth repeating. Donald Trump is back to his old tricks – swinging tariffs at anything that moves. Canadian goods, Mexican lorries, German car parts, Chinese electronics – all in the firing line. It’s draped in flags and wrapped in slogans about protecting the “American worker,” but scratch the surface and you’ll find something altogether grubbier underneath.

Tariffs, we’re told, are a blow for fairness. They’re supposed to rescue failing industries, punish foreign chancers, and bring prosperity flooding back to the heartlands. In reality, they make goods more expensive, provoke retaliation, and saddle everyone else with the consequences. American farmers, for example, have been flattened – again – and manufacturing is reeling from increased costs and disrupted supply lines.

Now, in March 2025, Trump has announced a fresh round of measures. A 25% tariff on imported vehicles. Penalties on Canadian and Mexican goods – this time with a straight face claiming it’s about drugs and border security. And the pièce de résistance: a so-called “reciprocal tariff” system that boils down to “they charge us, so we’ll charge them,” as though trade policy were a pub quiz with buzzers.

But does anyone seriously believe this is about jobs in Detroit, or revitalising American industry?

A more plausible – and frankly simpler – explanation is that tariffs are a tool for making money. Not for the country, mind you, but for a well-placed few. They cause share prices to lurch. Sectors rise or fall on a tweet. And where there’s movement, there’s opportunity – for those in the know.

Go back to 2018. Carl Icahn – long-time associate of Trump – quietly sold off steel shares just before tariffs were announced. Wilbur Ross, then Commerce Secretary, held investments in steel and shipping while “advising” on policy that affected both. Trump himself never even pretended to divest from his business empire. The whole lot’s a tangle of offshore companies, cronies, and donor interests that would make Private Eye blush.

Now it’s happening again. More tariffs, more noise, more market movements. And once again, someone’s making a tidy profit – just not the voters who were promised a renaissance. This isn’t economic policy – it’s a racket with bunting. A bit of populist theatre for the cameras, all the while lining pockets in the shadows. It’s distraction politics: wave the flag with one hand, rake it in with the other.

And let’s not kid ourselves that Trump is ignorant of all this. He may not grasp trade – clearly doesn’t – but he understands grift. He’s not interested in balanced economies or equitable deals. He’s interested in winning, as he defines it – which is to say, coming out personally richer while everyone else clears up the mess. So the next time he starts thumping the lectern about unfair foreign practices, don’t listen to the noise. Watch the money. These tariff tantrums aren’t about economics. They’re about control, optics, and private gain.

And if he were handed the W and the T, do you honestly think he could spell WTO – or would he flog it?

Toxic Femininity

Toxic masculinity gets a lot of press, and quite rightly so. The swaggering bravado, the refusal to ask for directions, the curious habit of punching holes in walls instead of addressing emotions head-on – all hallmarks of a culture that insists on stoicism to the point of implosion. While this is a well-recognised issue, it’s important to acknowledge that toxic masculinity is part of a broader conversation about harmful gender expectations. 

But what about its less discussed counterpart? Toxic femininity. Yes, it exists, and no, it's not just a figment of someone's fevered anti-woke imagination – though it’s worth noting that the term should be approached carefully to avoid polarising debate.

 

You see, toxic femininity operates under the radar, often masquerading as nurturing and supportive while slowly eroding individual autonomy and societal cohesion. It cloaks itself in moral superiority, weaponises victimhood, and perpetuates outdated gender norms, all while maintaining an aura of infallibility. 

Let’s start with the stereotype of the self-sacrificing mother – the martyr who forgoes her own needs for her family’s well-being. On the surface, this looks noble. But scratch that veneer, and you’ll find it’s a fast-track to guilt-tripping children into lifelong servitude and perpetuating the notion that women must suffer to be virtuous.

Then there’s the insidious notion that women are always more empathetic, morally superior beings. This belief often morphs into a sanctimonious policing of other women’s choices. Think of the judgment that flows when a woman decides not to have children, prioritises her career, or heaven forbid, expresses a politically incorrect opinion. Toxic femininity thrives in these moments – cloaked as concern, it’s actually control. It’s the socially influential figure who uses subtle exclusion tactics to maintain dominance. It’s the wellness guru peddling pseudoscience with a side of moral superiority.

We must also address how toxic femininity interacts with men. Contrary to popular belief, it’s not about uplifting all genders. It’s about maintaining a status quo where men are infantilised or demonised, depending on the narrative’s needs. On one end, you have the “men are useless” trope – sitcoms and adverts are littered with hapless husbands who can’t boil an egg without setting the house on fire. On the other, you have the weaponisation of tears and accusations to manipulate outcomes. We’ve seen careers ruined, relationships destroyed, and lives upended without due process. While false accusations remain rare, the consequences are profound when they do occur, emphasising the need for careful navigation of these issues.

But let’s not stop there. Toxic femininity also manifests in performative victimhood. There’s a subset of women who have made an art form out of being perpetually offended, perpetually aggrieved. They’ve turned fragility into a power move, wielding their perceived oppression as both shield and sword. The result? Conversations are stifled, debates shut down, and genuine grievances from all sides are lost in the cacophony of performative outrage.

The media, unsurprisingly, doesn’t call this out, likely due to the complexity and sensitivity of the topic. It’s more interested in painting women as perpetual victims and men as perpetual oppressors. It’s a simplistic, binary narrative that ignores the nuances of human behaviour and relationships. Toxic femininity perpetuates this narrative because it thrives on division. It doesn’t seek equality; it seeks moral high ground.

Let’s be clear – this isn’t a call to bash women or diminish legitimate feminist concerns. It’s a call to recognise that toxic behaviours aren’t exclusive to one gender. The idea that women can do no wrong is just as damaging as the notion that men must always be strong and silent. Both tropes box people into roles that stifle individuality and breed resentment.

So, what’s the antidote to toxic femininity? It’s the same as for toxic masculinity – authenticity, empathy, and accountability. It’s recognising that human beings are complex creatures capable of both great kindness and appalling cruelty, regardless of gender. It’s about dismantling stereotypes, not reinforcing them under the guise of empowerment.

In the end, the real enemy isn’t masculinity or femininity – toxic or otherwise. It’s the rigid adherence to outdated narratives that keep us all locked in battle with ourselves and each other. Let’s drop the scripts and start having real conversations, such as recognising the valid concerns on all sides and building bridges rather than walls. After all, isn’t that what true equality looks like?