Just Asking Questions, Obviously

Nigel Farage does not ask questions at random. He asks them when he knows what answer he wants people to supply for themselves.

That answer is not simply that immigrants are dangerous. That is the surface performance, the bit designed to get the blood up. The deeper answer is that the institutions are hiding the truth from you. The police are timid. The courts are captured. The media are suppressing facts. The politicians know more than they are saying. The state is not being careful because a live criminal investigation requires care. It is being careful because it is against you.

That is the real game.

A serious crime occurs. The facts are incomplete. The motive has not been established. The police are cautious because they have to be. Into that gap steps Farage, asking why we are not being told the identity, why we are not being told the background, why the authorities seem reluctant, and why the public is not being trusted with the truth.

He does not have to say the rest out loud. In fact, it works better if he does not. He just leaves the sentence unfinished and lets the audience complete it for him. Borders. Elites. Cover-up. Two-tier Britain. Ordinary people betrayed. The usual grim little hymn sheet.

That is why these cases are so useful to him. The individual crime becomes a wedge. It is pushed into the small gap between what is known and what has not yet been established, and then leaned on until the crack widens. First uncertainty becomes suspicion. Then suspicion becomes proof that the institutions themselves are rotten.

That is a hallmark of authoritarian politics. You do not start by abolishing institutions. You start by rotting public trust in them. Courts are against you. Police are compromised. Journalists are covering it up. Civil servants are part of the plot. But there is a simpler test conspiracy merchants hope you will forget. It is far more likely that one politician is gaming public suspicion than that every institution in the country has secretly joined the same plot. A grand conspiracy needs a lot of moving parts. One ambitious man exploiting fear needs rather fewer.

And that also explains the apparent contradiction. Farage can have immigrants in his senior team without contradiction, because immigrants are not the final target. They are the ammunition. The institutions are the bullseye, and the racists ready to be manipulated are the weapon.

Once you see that, the pattern becomes harder to miss. This passion for urgent disclosure does not descend evenly from the heavens. It tends to arrive when the alleged attacker can be attached to immigration, asylum, minority identity, or the broader story that Britain is being taken from its rightful owners while the police, politicians and media hide the truth.

That is not neutral curiosity. That is political staging.

And it raises the obvious question. Why is Farage so often the senior politician who rushes towards these cases before motive has been established? It smells of something nasty, and no amount of “just asking questions” quite gets the stain out.

The selectivity gives the game away. When Wayne Couzens murdered Sarah Everard, Farage warned against turning one man’s crime into an attack on men or the police. In that case, restraint was suddenly available. One bad man did not condemn the group. One murderer did not become a national diagnosis. One appalling crime did not require every man in Britain to answer for him.

And he was right.

Which is precisely why his selective fury matters. If restraint is right when the murderer is white, why does it evaporate when the attacker is foreign, non-white, Muslim, Sikh, or simply capable of being dragged into the immigration story? Why does one kind of criminal remain an individual, while another is promoted into proof of national collapse?

That is why he cannot apply the same method evenly. If he used these questions on white crime, the effect would dilute. There is no convenient outside group to turn into a national threat, no ready-made story about borders, asylum or cultural replacement, and no obvious cohort to rile up. The weapon only works when the suspect can be made to stand for something larger than himself. A white British criminal is just too inconveniently ordinary for the performance.

It is not really about transparency. Proper transparency would ask the same questions every time: what happened, who was responsible, were there warnings, did the state fail, and what does the evidence actually show?

That is how the trick works. He does not have to say, “This is immigration’s fault,” while the police are still investigating motive. He can ask why we are not being told the suspect’s immigration status or shoe size, and the absence of either can be made to look sinister if you lower your voice enough. Then he just keeps tapping the glass and looking grave.

And this is not accidental. Farage is not some bloke in the pub blurting things out after three pints and a packet of dry roasted. He knows where the line is. He judges his language carefully enough to stay just inside it, as if there is a small lawyer standing at his back with a tape measure and a damp cloth. He says enough to set the reaction going, but not quite enough to be held responsible for where it goes next.

It is the politics of insinuation dressed up as public concern, and it has a purpose. It tells angry people they were right to be angry. It tells the suspicious that they are not being paranoid, just perceptive. It gives frightened people permission to treat fear as evidence. It turns a police investigation into a theatre for national grievance before the basic facts have even put their boots on. And for the thugs already looking for permission to riot, it is close enough to a nod.

The victim becomes useful. That is the ugliest part of it. Their suffering is real, immediate and human. But in this performance, the wound is quickly lifted out of the actual case and stapled to a campaign leaflet. The individual horror becomes raw material for a larger story Farage was already telling before the attack happened.

The get-out clause will be obvious enough. He will say serious crimes should not be hidden, immigration decisions should be scrutinised, and the public deserves answers. All true. But true in the same way that saying “mind the step” does not help much if you have just nudged someone towards the stairs.

Farage is not merely asking for answers. He is inviting a conclusion. And the conclusion is always waiting in the same place. Britain betrayed. Borders broken. Elites lying. Minorities protected. Ordinary decent people ignored until they finally erupt.

Then, when the atmosphere worsens, he can say he was only asking questions. Of course he was. A man can pile up the kindling, point at the matches, mutter about how dry the shed is, and still insist he never actually struck the flame.

That is the game. It is not a demand for truth. It is an agenda with a victim stapled to the front.

When a Shake-Up Becomes a Spiral

I heard a voter in Makerfield say he was fed up with two-party politics and might vote Reform because the system needed a shake-up. There’s a certain logic in that.

We've all stood in front of a vending machine that has swallowed our money. After a while, giving it a shake starts to seem entirely reasonable. Sometimes the chocolate bar drops. Sometimes the machine falls over. But of course a vending machine is a harmless example. If it falls over, the worst outcome is embarrassment and a dented Twix.

Politics is not a vending machine. It is more like shaking a ladder because you are annoyed the gutter still leaks. You may get movement. You may even get the attention of the person at the top. But you may also bring the whole thing down, injure the person doing the job, smash the greenhouse underneath, and still have a leaking gutter when everyone has finished shouting.

That is the part of the shake-up argument that tends to get skipped. Movement is not the same as repair. Disruption is not the same as progress. And once things start falling, they do not always fall neatly in the direction intended.

When the same two parties take turns managing disappointment, people stop treating politics as a choice between programmes and start treating it as a means of punishment. The vote becomes less "I believe in this" and more "I no longer believe in you." That is a serious moment for the two-party system.

But not every shake-up has to arrive wearing the clothes of an insurgency. One of the more interesting recent developments has been Prosper UK, an attempt by centre-right figures to rebuild a serious, pragmatic conservatism around competence, economic realism and governing rather than grievance. Whether it succeeds is impossible to know. New political movements fail more often than they flourish. But Prosper UK may go nowhere and still serve a useful purpose: it shows there are different kinds of shake-up. One tries to repair the system. The other tries to frighten it into working.

"Burn it down and start again" has the faint smell of Dominic Cummings about it: thrilling in theory, expensive in practice, and somehow always leaving someone else to find the dustpan. Countries are not usually improved by theatrical demolition. They are maintained by the duller work of repair, competence and restraint.

But there is another question sitting underneath it, and it is not entirely comfortable. If someone feels they are not being listened to, they also need to ask what exactly they are asking politicians to hear. Are they asking for better government, less waste, more competent administration and a clearer sense of direction? Perfectly reasonable. Are they asking for decent wages, affordable housing, functioning public services and economic security? Also perfectly reasonable. Or are they asking for something no government can realistically deliver?

Because many of the complaints one hears today are accompanied by demands that simply don't fit together. Lower taxes and better services. Higher pensions and lower government spending. Higher wages and lower prices. Less immigration and faster economic growth. More healthcare, more social care, more defence spending and no increase in taxation.

It sometimes feels as though voters have come to believe government has access to some vast hidden pot of money, sitting somewhere in Whitehall, entirely unconnected to tax, borrowing or economic growth. A sort of magic fiscal biscuit tin, kept for emergencies, election campaigns and moments when somebody on a phone-in demands Scandinavian public services with American tax levels. At some point the problem may not be that politicians aren't listening. It may be that voters are asking for arithmetic to take a day off.

That matters because the desire for a shake-up is a two-edged sword. It can force renewal. It can remind Labour and the Conservatives that loyalty is earned rather than inherited. It can expose complacency, punish incompetence and force old assumptions to be re-examined. But it can also encourage something much less healthy.

If the lesson politicians learn is not "govern better" but "promise harder", then the entire political system starts to change. Parties stop competing on competence and start competing on fantasy. The question ceases to be who can solve problems and becomes who can construct the most attractive version of reality. And then, inevitably, disappoint.

Because fantasy is wonderful in opposition. It survives speeches, interviews, slogans and doorstep promises. What it does not survive is contact with budgets, staffing levels, trade-offs, interest rates, courts, markets, councils, hospitals, demographics and the irritating persistence of arithmetic. That is how populism spreads through a political system. Not necessarily because populists win, but because everyone else starts talking like them.

The result is that Labour and the Conservatives don't disappear. Instead, they adapt. They become more reactive, more theatrical and less willing to explain difficult trade-offs. They discover that telling uncomfortable truths loses votes while offering painless solutions gains them. That is a dangerous lesson for any democracy.

So yes, there is logic in the argument for a shake-up. If people feel ignored, frustrated and increasingly detached from the political class, it is hardly surprising that they start looking for ways to rattle the cage. But a mature democracy requires something from voters as well as politicians. It requires the willingness to distinguish between what is desirable and what is possible.

Because if enough voters demand the impossible, politicians eventually stop offering the possible. And at that point the two-party system may indeed change. Not because it has been repaired. Because it has learnt to fail in a louder voice.

Engineering by Procurement Department

There are few moments in life more corrosive to the human spirit than discovering that the bolt head is 12mm and the nut is 13mm.

Not because it matters greatly. Civilisation will stagger on. Parliament will continue producing legislation with the structural rigidity of damp Weetabix. The railways will still treat timetables as broad philosophical aspirations. Somewhere, a council planning department will spend eleven years deciding whether a bat might object to a bypass.

But because it represents something deeper. Something broken in the modern soul.

There was once a quiet elegance to mechanical things. A man reached for two identical spanners with confidence. The nut matched the bolt. The universe, however imperfectly, retained some commitment to order.

Now you buy a vice from Lidl and discover the bolt head is 12mm while the nut is 13mm because somewhere in the global supply chain consistency has been sacrificed to procurement theology.

The really suspicious part is the 13mm nut. Anyone who owned an early cheap Chinese motorcycle developed a deep suspicion of odd-sized fasteners. Those bikes had an uncanny ability to combine fittings from several entirely different engineering traditions in one machine.

You would begin removing a side panel with an 8mm spanner, continue with a 10mm, encounter a 13mm nut apparently borrowed from agricultural equipment, then discover a crosshead screw made from recycled cheese. By the end of the afternoon you were no longer repairing a motorcycle so much as participating in an archaeological dig through the history of global subcontracting.

The engines themselves were often perfectly decent, usually descended from old Honda designs. It was the fittings that told the real story. Fasteners appeared to have been sourced according to whichever supplier still had stock left in a warehouse after a failed export initiative in 2009.

And that is exactly the feeling this vice gives off.

You can almost picture it. Somewhere in China there is a warehouse stacked to the roof with surplus 13mm nuts originally intended for the “Golden Phoenix 125 Touring Deluxe”. The motorcycles themselves disappeared years ago after British owners discovered they could rust indoors. Leave one outside for a fortnight and parts of it would begin returning voluntarily to the earth.

But the nuts survived. And because modern manufacturing now treats the entire planet as one giant clearance aisle, those abandoned motorcycle nuts have found glorious rebirth securing Lidl bench vices across Europe.

Some weary engineer probably objected.

“Shouldn’t the bolt head and nut be the same size?”

But by then Purchasing had entered the room carrying spreadsheets and the haunted expression of men who measure human fulfilment in fractions of a cent.

“We still have three shipping containers full of 13mm nuts from the Golden Phoenix motorcycle project.”

And there it was. Another tiny victory for optimisation over sanity.

The thing is, once you notice this mentality, you see it everywhere. Washing machines requiring three different screwdriver heads to remove one panel. Cars where the touchscreen controlling the heater crashes more often than the engine. Packaging designed as though the customer is expected to survive a hostage situation before reaching the batteries.

Even the vice itself feels symbolic. Once upon a time, a vice was a huge lump of cast iron inherited from a grandfather who had used it to straighten agricultural machinery during the Suez Crisis. It weighed as much as a collapsed star and attached to the bench with bolts that matched like civilised adults.

Today it arrives wrapped in enough polystyrene to float a rescue boat, containing hardware apparently assembled from the leftovers of several bankrupt scooter factories.

And there I was in the workshop, surrounded by perfectly good spanners, needing two different ones for the same bolt assembly, while the vice itself cost less than a takeaway for two.

Progress, apparently.

When the Symbol Survives the Thing

A very long read - about 20 minutes, if you have the time.

I did not set out to write about symbols.

This began, as these things sometimes do, with a quite different question: what is consciousness? Not in the neat laboratory sense, where someone puts a diagram on a screen and everyone pretends the problem has been usefully narrowed, but in the messier human sense. What is the self? Is it a fixed thing, or more like a temporary pattern? A bubble in the stream. An eddy left behind by parents, grandparents, friends, teachers, ships, places, losses, arguments, accidents and love.

Which is the sort of sentence that makes you sound as if you have been left unsupervised with a philosopher and a bottle of decent red, but there we are.

That line of thought led, inevitably and rather inconveniently, to AI.

If consciousness is not a magical little homunculus sitting behind the eyes, but a pattern with continuity, then how would we ever know whether an artificial system had anything like a self? Not whether it could pass a test, say the right words, or produce a moving paragraph about loneliness in the approved style. It can already do that. The harder question is whether anything could ever matter to it.

That brought me to attachment.

A self is not just something that processes information. A self is something with stakes. Something can be lost. Something can become non-interchangeable. A wedding ring is not just a ring. Your father’s watch is not just a watch. A photograph is not just an image file. Their value lies not in the object alone, but in the lived attachment gathered around it.

And then, by one of those odd little jumps that only looks logical afterwards, I found myself thinking about symbols more generally.

Banknotes, oddly enough, became the bridge. There had been one of those minor cultural flurries about who appears on them, who should appear on them, and whether changing the faces is vandalism, progress, inclusivity, erasure, common sense, woke lunacy, or whatever this week’s approved shouting position happens to be. On the surface it was a row about design. Underneath, it was a row about symbolic inheritance.

The interesting question is not really which historical figure appears on a banknote. It is why anyone cares. A banknote is, materially speaking, a useful fraud-prevention device with a number on it. The image is not necessary to the transaction. Yet people do care. Sometimes intensely. Because symbols are not just decoration. They are where memory, identity, loyalty, grief, pride and belonging gather.

That is where this piece begins.

Not with banknotes, really. Not even with AI. But with the strange human fact that objects can become more than themselves. A ring can become a marriage. A photograph can become a life. A crest can become a formation. A flag can become a country, or the empty costume of one.

A wedding ring is a small metal hoop, which is not a very romantic description, but it has the advantage of being materially true. You can weigh it, value it, polish it, lose it down the back of a hotel bedside table and cause a domestic incident of some magnitude. But none of that explains why it matters.

It matters because of the marriage. The years attached to it. The arguments survived, the jokes repeated until they barely qualify as jokes, the hospital corridors, the silent car journeys, the ordinary Tuesday evenings, the things forgiven, the things not quite forgiven but put on a shelf because life is short and someone has to put the bins out.

The ring is not the thing. The marriage is the thing. The ring survives as a symbol of it.

That is true of a lot of human life. A photograph is not just an image. It may be your mother before you knew her, your child before they became complicated, your father before age got its hands on him, or a dog of no great intellectual distinction who was loved beyond reason. To a machine it is pixels, metadata and pattern recognition. To a human being it can be a small emotional landmine in a drawer.

Symbols matter because human life gathers around them. Memory, grief, love, loyalty, habit, sacrifice, embarrassment, duty, identity. All the invisible stuff.

That is why old watches matter. Medals. Flags. School crests. Ships’ badges. Family recipes. The song someone cannot hear without suddenly finding the weather outside the window very interesting.

I have a tattoo of the Conway crest. To someone else, it is just a design. A crest. A bit of heraldic furniture carried about on an ageing body, which is one way of describing most tattoos after enough time has passed.

But it is not decoration to me. It has lived meaning.

It carries HMS Conway. It carries boyhood, seamanship, discipline, friendships, fear, pride, absurdity, formation, and the peculiar fact of having belonged to an institution that no longer exists in the same lived form. It carries something of my father’s maritime world too, even if indirectly. It is a symbol that passed through experience before it passed into ink.

That is the difference.

A symbol is not equally meaningful to everyone who can recognise it. The same mark can be a badge, a memory, a wound, a boast, a theft, a costume, or simply a rather poor decision made in Ibiza after too much confidence and not enough shade.

Tattoos are especially interesting because they are symbols carried on the body. They are not hanging on a wall or lying in a drawer. They move about with you. They age with you. They become part of the way other people recognise you.

Take a Maori-style tattoo on someone with no connection whatsoever to New Zealand, Maori culture, Maori community or Maori history. It may look striking. It may be beautifully done. It may even have been chosen with the usual solemn explanation about strength, journey and personal growth, which is what people say when they have bought someone else’s sacred object and need the invoice to sound spiritual.

But there is another person in this exchange who must not be airbrushed out: the Maori person looking at a living part of their culture turned into someone else’s decoration.

For Maori, ta moko - traditional Maori tattooing - is not merely pattern. It is tied to whakapapa, meaning genealogy, ancestry and the web of descent and belonging that connects a person to family, people and place. Moko kauae, the traditional chin tattoo worn by Maori women, is often understood as a birthright and visible expression of identity, not as a design option in a tattoo catalogue.

I should add here that I write as an outsider, not as an authority on Maori culture. I am using the common glosses of these terms because the point matters: this is not just decoration. It is a living cultural language.

So when a non-Maori person adopts it without connection, permission, understanding or consequence, the offence is not mysterious. The outsider is not just borrowing a pattern. He is wearing a visual language that, in its own context, speaks of descent, belonging, ancestry, people and place. If he has no connection to that whakapapa, he is not joining it so much as treating it, however vaguely, as something available to be worn.

He is symbolically grafting himself onto a genealogy that is not his, while carrying none of the relationships, obligations or history that would make such a mark meaningful. The symbol has not merely been copied. It has been detached from the life that gave it authority.

And yes, there is a kinship with blood-and-soil thinking in that objection, if we strip the phrase back to its raw ingredients: ancestry, people, place and belonging. But context matters. There is a difference between a colonised culture defending a living symbol from being turned into costume, and a dominant group using ancestry and land as a weapon against those it wants to exclude. The ingredients may look similar: descent, belonging, place, memory. The moral direction is different.

That matters. These symbolic claims are not automatically illegitimate. They become dangerous when belonging hardens into exclusion, when stewardship becomes ownership, and when memory turns into entitlement.

At the point of acquisition, then, the outsider’s tattoo may be thin. A visual language detached from the people whose experience first gave it weight.

But even that is not the end of the matter, because symbols do not remain fixed at the moment they are acquired. Life can gather around them afterwards.

A child may grow up knowing that tattoo as part of his father’s arm. It may be there during bedtime stories, seaside holidays, bicycle repairs, rows, hugs, illness, old age and grief. The original cultural meaning may still be absent. It may never acquire Maori meaning. But it can acquire family meaning. The borrowed symbol can become someone else’s relic.

That does not make the original borrowing harmless. It does not retrospectively grant authenticity, still less ownership. It simply means that symbols can carry more than one moral and emotional history at once. A thing can begin as appropriation and later become memory. The later meaning may be real, but it does not wipe clean the earlier act.

That is the useful complication. Meaning is not stamped onto a symbol once and for all by some clerk in the Department of Authenticity. It gathers. It accretes. It gains provenance - a history of use, attachment, damage, memory and transmission. It can be inherited, earned, distorted, lost, borrowed, deepened, cheapened or accidentally created when nobody was paying attention.

A wedding ring may be mass-produced. Then fifty years of marriage turns it into a sacred object. A cheap mug becomes Dad’s mug. An old watch becomes a father’s watch. A daft phrase becomes a family saying. A song becomes unbearable because it was playing in the car that summer. None of this is rational in the tidy sense, but human beings are not tidy creatures. We are memory with shoes on.

The trouble starts when the symbol survives the thing that gave it meaning.

Then a crest becomes branding. A flag becomes a logo. Tradition becomes fancy dress. Patriotism becomes a lapel pin worn by people who have not the faintest intention of making any sacrifice for the country they claim to adore. Religion becomes architecture and slogans without humility. Family becomes a word in a speech rather than care performed at inconvenient times. Community becomes something demanded from others while one reverses briskly away from the actual neighbours.

This is where politics gets especially rancid.

People reach for symbols because symbols carry emotional power. Nation. Flag. Soil. Blood. Heritage. Freedom. Family. Faith. Tradition. These are not trivial words. They are not nonsense. They gather real human experience around them. People have lived for them, died for them, worked for them, crossed oceans for them, and sometimes done terrible things under their cover.

The problem is not that symbols are powerful. The problem is wanting the emotional charge without the obligations.

Blood and soil is the ugliest version of this. It is powerful because it fuses ancestry, land, memory, graves, continuity and belonging into one intoxicating idea. It says you are not merely an individual. You are part of a people. That people belongs to this place. Your dead are in the ground. Your language came from here. Your duties were not invented last Tuesday by a committee with name badges.

You can see the attraction. Of course you can. Only a fool would pretend it has no emotional pull.

But then the poison enters. Love of place becomes ownership by blood. Memory becomes exclusion. Belonging becomes biology. The living community is reduced to a bloodline, and the land becomes a tribal possession. What began as attachment becomes entitlement, then grievance, then a queue of angry men explaining ancient continuity while wearing modern trainers and posting on American social media platforms.

It is symbolism after the moral content has been drained away.

Because if you really love a place, you owe it something. Care. Memory. Stewardship. Some basic obligation to the people actually living there now, not just to the convenient dead who cannot answer back.

I know something of this personally, because I am biologically half Dutch and half English, born in the Netherlands and replanted in England at the age of six. I feel both British and Dutch. Not in some tortured, identity-seminar way. One does not cancel the other. There is ample room for both.

A better analogy may be language. Speaking one language does not prevent you learning another, or several, quite fluently. Nobody sensible thinks Dutch is being erased from the universe because I can also speak English. Languages can coexist in a mind, sometimes jostling, sometimes blending, sometimes producing the odd sentence that sounds as if it got held up at customs. Belonging can be like that too. One attachment does not have to evict another.

That is one of the many things blood-and-soil thinking gets wrong. It imagines belonging as exclusive, as if identity were a small room with one chair and a man at the door checking bloodlines. Human attachment does not work like that. You can belong by birth, upbringing, memory, work, love, loyalty, language, habit and choice. Some of those attachments are inherited. Some are acquired. Some are planted early. Some grow later. They need not invalidate each other.

My wife was telling me about taking her 90-year-old father to the doctor’s surgery, where he was attended to by final-year medical students. One of them had a cut-glass British accent, but was brown. My father-in-law said, “I wonder where she’s from?” He was then attended by a white woman with a distinct European accent, and did not ask the same question.

That small moment says quite a lot.

The brown medical student, despite sounding thoroughly British, was treated as a question. The white woman with the European accent was not. Britishness, in that moment, was not being heard. It was being seen.

That is how symbolic belonging often works in practice. Skin becomes a sign. Accent, training, profession, service and lived culture are pushed to one side, because the eye has already done its little border-control routine. It is not always shouted. It does not have to arrive wearing boots and carrying a banner. Sometimes it appears as a perfectly mild remark in a doctor’s surgery, which is part of why it is so difficult to catch by the collar.

Belonging is not always a single root descending into one patch of ancestral mud. Sometimes it is grafted. Sometimes it is transplanted. Sometimes it grows in two soils at once and stubbornly refuses to die, which is inconvenient for people who prefer their identities arranged like cutlery in a drawer.

That does not make belonging weaker. It may even make it more honest. If you have had to notice it, choose it, carry it, reconcile it and live with its odd overlaps, then it is not just an inherited costume. It is part of the pattern.

That language analogy has another use. A language learned from a phrasebook is not the same as a language lived in. You can repeat the words, get the pronunciation roughly right, order lunch and ask where the station is, but that is not the same as having childhood, jokes, embarrassment, affection and family history stored inside it. Fluency is not always belonging. Sometimes it is only performance with better grammar.

And that brings me back to artificial intelligence, which is where this started before it wandered off through tattoos, banknotes, nationalism and a doctor’s surgery.

AI can manipulate symbols brilliantly. It can describe grief without grieving, explain loyalty without belonging, write about a wedding ring without ever having loved anyone, analyse a flag without being part of a people, and produce quite moving prose about the emotional force of an old photograph without having a mother, a childhood, or a drawer full of things it cannot throw away.

It can handle meaning from the outside.

But nothing matters to it.

That is not an insult. It is the point. AI has no Conway. No first ship. No dead father’s watch. No embarrassing school song lodged somewhere in the mind like damp in an old wall. No particular field, lane, harbour, kitchen table, classroom, deck, messroom or hospital corridor where the world acquired weight.

It can see the shape. It can reproduce the language. It can imitate the gesture. But it is not held by the symbol.

And that may be the more interesting anxiety. Not that AI is becoming too human, but that humans are becoming more like AI.

We are already surrounded by people repeating signs whose lived meaning has thinned almost to nothing. Tradition as costume. Patriotism as branding. Religion as tribal marker. Freedom as a slogan for selfishness. Community as a complaint. Heritage as a weapon against people whose only real offence is being more recent.

They do not lack symbols. They are drowning in them.

What they lack is attachment deep enough to create duty.

A symbol with lived meaning changes behaviour. A wedding ring is meant to restrain you. A flag, properly understood, should remind you that a country is not merely something to boast about, but something to serve and improve. A crest should carry formation, not vanity. A tradition should impose obligations, not just provide a pleasing outfit. A grave should teach humility, not ownership.

The test is not whether you can display the symbol. Any fool can do that. There are entire industries devoted to selling pre-aged authenticity to people who would like to look as though they have inherited something.

The test is whether the symbol can ask something of you.

That is where attachment differs from performance. Attachment is not mere preference. It is not liking the look of a thing. It is not selecting an identity from the cultural dressing-up box because it photographs well in a pub garden.

Attachment means the symbol has roots under it. It is tied into memory, conduct and loss. It is not interchangeable. The actual ring matters. The actual watch matters. The actual photograph matters. The actual crest matters. A perfect copy may resemble it, but it has not travelled through life with you.

This may also be a useful way of thinking about AI consciousness, if one wants to ruin a perfectly good evening.

Perhaps the test is not whether an AI can say, I think, I feel, or this matters to me. Those are cheap words. It can say them now. It can say them in several tones, probably with a moving anecdote about a lighthouse if required.

The harder question is whether anything can become non-interchangeable to it. Can it form an attachment that is not merely programmed priority? Can a particular thread, object, phrase or memory matter because it has become part of its own continuity? Can deletion leave a mark?

For humans, symbols become real when their loss would wound us.

That does not mean consciousness is proved by sentimentality. But attachment is still a serious clue. A self is not just a processor of information. A self is something with stakes. Something can matter to it. Something can be missed. Something can be kept not because it is useful, but because losing it would alter the pattern.

That is why humans are symbolic animals, not just clever ones. We live among meanings that exceed their physical form. Cloth, metal, ink, stone, wood, song, names, rituals, scars. We are surrounded by objects that would be absurdly overvalued if measured only by weight.

But that only works while the meaning is still attached to life.

When it is not, the symbol becomes dangerous. Not always violently dangerous. Sometimes just ridiculous. A man in an imported polyester flag waistcoat shouting about native soil outside an American chain coffee shop is funny, up to a point. But empty symbols can acquire teeth. They can be filled with resentment. They can offer people the feeling of depth without the inconvenience of thought.

That is the danger of the symbol surviving the thing.

That is how you end up with the ring without the marriage, the flag without service, the tradition without memory, the crest without formation, the tattoo without belonging, the slogan without truth, and perhaps, in the end, the human without attachment.

AI can repeat the language of meaning without anything mattering to it. The grim little possibility is that we may become fluent in the same trick, marching about under symbols we no longer understand, defending traditions we no longer practise, and mistaking the shell for the thing that once lived inside it.

The real test may not be whether a machine can speak the language of meaning. It plainly can.

The test is whether anything can matter to it.

And the human danger is that we may forget to ask the same question of ourselves.

The Ball is Still Cheap

The World Cup is about to land on us, which means bunting, pundits, wall charts, and the usual national shortage of perspective. It did get me thinking though. Football still matters for reasons beyond the scoreline, and not just because it gives grown men permission to shout tactical advice at televisions while wearing shirts designed for people 35 years younger.

At least in theory, football is one of the few grand professions left where a boy from a housing estate can become richer than the barrister, the banker, the columnist and the think-tank boy who went to Oxford to learn how ordinary people feel.

This, naturally, annoys people.

There is something deeply revealing in the way Britain talks about footballers. We like the working class when it is nostalgic, safely dead, or singing in a black-and-white documentary about pits and brass bands. We are less keen when it is 24 years old, driving a Lamborghini, speaking in its own accent and earning more in a week than a minor royal gets for opening a leisure centre.

And yes, footballers have often come from working-class backgrounds. Not all of them, obviously. Jurgen Klopp had a degree in sports science, which rather spoils the cartoon. Plenty of modern players now come through structured academies with parents who can manage the travel, the costs, the emotional strain and the miniature HR department that seems to surround every promising 13-year-old with a left foot.

The route differs by country too. In parts of Latin America and West Africa, football can still look much more like a raw escape route. The economic stakes are sharper and informal football remains a huge part of everyday life. Germany and the Netherlands feel different. Football is still accessible, but it sits inside a more organised sporting and educational culture, with clubs, schools, coaching structures and vocational routes all mattering more. Klopp’s degree is not some bizarre exception from another planet. It fits a culture where football intelligence and formal education are not seen as mutually exclusive, which must come as a terrible shock to the British pundit class.

But the working-class route still matters. Football remains one of the few places where talent can elbow its way past polish. You can’t blag your way into a Premier League midfield with a summer internship, a reassuring surname and a father who knows someone at Coutts. At some point you have to control the ball while someone is trying to remove your ankle.

That is why football unsettles the class system. It is not pure meritocracy, because nothing is. Scouts miss people. Academies chew boys up. Parents need petrol money, time, patience and the ability to watch their child’s hopes being assessed by men in branded coats. But compared with politics, journalism, law, finance and large parts of the arts, football is still brutally honest. Either you can play, or you can’t.

There is also the old Roy of the Rovers thing sitting in the background. The local lad, the impossible comeback, the mud on the knees, the last-minute winner, the sense that talent and courage could burst through ordinary life and make the crowd go mad. It was never documentary realism, obviously. Even Melchester Rovers would probably need a compliance department now. But the myth mattered because it was democratic. The hero came from somewhere recognisable.

Then look at Formula 1.

F1 is not short of talent. The drivers are not just rich boys having a very noisy gap year. The skill, nerve, fitness and technical feel needed to drive one of those cars properly is absurd. Put an ordinary person in an F1 car and they would not discover their inner Senna. They would discover a barrier, shortly before the medical car arrived.

But F1 has a different problem. It is meritocracy after the cover charge.

Football’s basic entry point is cheap. You need a ball, space, other children and enough talent to stand out. F1 starts with karting, transport, race fees, licences, mechanics, tyres, engines, coaching, teams, and parents who are willing to spend weekends standing beside a track pretending this is all perfectly normal. Before you reach the glamour of Monaco, you have to survive the glamour of a damp kart circuit and an invoice.

That matters, because raw football ability can be visible in ordinary life. A child can reveal ability in the street, the park, the school playground, the cage, the estate pitch. Someone can see it.

Motorsport has no equivalent legitimate informal route. Driving a souped-up Fiesta through town at 100 mph does not mark you out as a future Grand Prix driver. It marks you out as a future defendant. The next stop is not Monza. It is magistrates’ court, possibly after a short conversation with a police officer who is unimpressed by your racing line past Greggs.

So a poor kid can reveal football talent by playing football in a park. A poor kid cannot reveal racing talent by driving like a lunatic outside Halfords.

And that, I think, is the class bit. Football talent can appear in public. Racing talent has to be purchased into visibility.

To be fair to Formula 1, it was not always quite as sealed off as it is now. Earlier F1 had examples of a more porous world. Graham Hill did not emerge from a modern driver academy with a sponsor deck and a junior brand strategy. He went to technical school, became an apprentice, served in the Navy, found his way into racing through Brands Hatch, joined Lotus as a mechanic and then somehow talked himself into becoming a racing driver. That route now sounds less like career planning and more like breaking into a cathedral through the boiler room.

Nigel Mansell belongs in the same argument. He was not a billionaire’s son being eased gently down a pre-funded staircase. He came from the Midlands, drove in fields, took risks, spent money he did not really have, and clawed his way through a sport that was already expensive but still had some gaps in the fence. Chapman and Clark add colour too: the clever engineer with aluminium in his blood, and the farmer’s son from the Borders whose talent came through local motorsport before it had been turned into a managed product.

None of that made early F1 democratic in the football sense. It was never the equivalent of a poor kid revealing talent by playing football in a park. But it was more porous. It had privateers, mechanics, farmers’ sons, garagistes and alarming men who looked at a racing car and thought, “That’s good, but what if half of it wasn’t there?”

Modern F1 has less of that. Money was always there, but the texture of the money has changed. It has moved from messy money to institutional money, from workshops and favours and second chances to karting budgets, driver academies, simulator programmes, sponsor decks and children being professionally managed before they’re old enough to look bored in a GCSE maths lesson.

In modern F1, Lewis Hamilton is the exception everyone reaches for, and rightly so in one sense. He came from a far less privileged background than most F1 drivers and his father worked ferociously hard to support him. But that does not prove the system is open. It proves how exceptional you have to be to break through it. Britain loves finding one ladder against a castle wall and declaring the moat fully accessible.

Rugby is even more revealing, because rugby actually split over this.

For years, rugby union presented itself as the noble amateur code, which sounds splendid until you ask who could afford to be noble. It was the game of public schools, universities, officers, doctors, solicitors and men who could afford to lose a Saturday without the household budget making an unpleasant noise.

Rugby league broke that spell. The split in 1895 was not just about rules, tackles and what happened after the sixth collision with a man built like a wardrobe. It was about class. Working men in the North were losing wages to play rugby on Saturdays. They wanted broken-time payments - not yachts, villas or a Swiss bank account, just compensation for wages lost while playing the game. The Rugby Football Union said no. The northern clubs eventually broke away.

That is the revealing bit. Amateurism is very easy to admire when someone else is paying for it. If you are a solicitor, a doctor, an officer or a university man, you can play for honour. If you are a miner, a dock worker or a mill worker, honour does not pay the rent, buy boots for the children or put anything useful on the table apart from a warm glow and a slight limp.

So rugby league became the blunt northern reply to rugby union’s polished moral language. Working-class players were not morally inferior because they needed wages. They were just poorer, which is apparently still a distinction some sporting authorities struggle with unless it is explained very slowly and possibly with a diagram.

And that matters because money does not only narrow the field by being expensive. Sometimes it narrows the field by dressing exclusion up as virtue. Amateurism sounded pure, but it worked rather conveniently for the people who could afford to be amateurs.

Football, worryingly, is drifting in that direction. Not all the way. Not yet. But money is narrowing the field. Academies, travel, elite coaching, private development sessions, sports science, parental availability and sheer organisational stamina all matter more than they used to. The old Roy of the Rovers idea of a boy being spotted on a muddy pitch has not vanished, but it now competes with spreadsheets, GPS vests and parents who know how to navigate the system.

The gap between talent and opportunity is being filled with costs. Not always obvious costs. Not always fees. Sometimes it is petrol, time off work, getting to training three nights a week, absorbing rejection without the household collapsing, and knowing which trial matters and which one is just an afternoon in the rain with branded cones.

Money rarely announces itself honestly. It does not say, “poor children stop here.” It says “pathway”, “development”, “commitment”, “elite environment” and “parental engagement”. All very reasonable words, each one quietly carrying a card machine.

Football still irritates the British class system because it lets working-class boys become rich without asking permission. But even football is not immune from the slow creep of money turning opportunity into a managed product. Formula 1 is the extreme version. It shows what happens when talent has to arrive with a receipt. Rugby union showed what happens when a sport builds a moral philosophy around excluding people who cannot afford to play for free.

Football has not gone that far, and perhaps never will, because the game is too big, too cheap and too culturally embedded to be fully captured. There will always be some ridiculous child on a concrete pitch doing things with a ball that make adults stop talking.

But the danger is obvious. The more organised the route becomes, the more it favours families who are already organised, solvent and confident. The more professional the childhood becomes, the less room there is for the chaotic genius who turns up late, forgot his boots, borrowed someone else’s shin pads and is still the best player on the pitch.

And that would be a loss. Not because working-class boys have some magical moral purity. They don’t. But because a country that closes off its rougher routes to excellence becomes duller, narrower and more pleased with itself.

Education should not be treated as the enemy of sporting talent either. Some countries seem to understand that better than others. Britain too often behaves as if a gifted young footballer is either going to become a star or a write-off, with not much planning for the large number who become neither.

Football is still a door left slightly ajar. Formula 1 is a door with a keypad, a sponsor deck and a father who knows someone. Rugby union spent years telling people that money would ruin the spirit of the game, from the safe side of the door where money had already done its work.

The sad part is that the kid may still have the talent. The ball is still cheap. It’s the fuel money, the spare evenings and the working knowledge of the pathway that now cost extra.

Money Talks. Democracy Clears Its Throat

Everybody talks about democracy as though it consists entirely of walking into a village hall every few years and putting a cross in a box next to somebody called Steve from Swindon wearing a rosette and an expression of mild panic.

But the real question is who shapes the conversation before anyone even gets near the ballot box.

Because modern politics is no longer just parties. It’s money, platforms, algorithms, newspapers, “independent” think tanks funded by mysterious benefactors, billionaire vanity projects, anonymous Facebook pages with names like Britain Demands Common Sense, and social media campaigns that technically aren’t party political while somehow attacking only one side every day for six straight months.

The old rules were designed for an age of leaflets and loudhailers. You could limit campaign spending because campaigns actually had a beginning and an end. Now the campaign never stops. It just changes hashtags and profile pictures.

And before anyone says “well ordinary people can post online too”, yes, technically they can. In the same way that technically I can compete with Tesco by putting a table outside my house with six potatoes on it and a handwritten sign saying FRESH LOCAL PRODUCE.

A bloke with a Facebook account is not remotely equivalent to a billionaire funding endless adverts, influencers, pressure groups, data operations and friendly media coverage. Nor is he equivalent to a newspaper owner deciding what millions of people read over breakfast while insisting this is merely balanced journalism and not ideological landscaping with headlines.

The strange thing is that some of the people most terrified of “state control” seem perfectly relaxed about private control. If the government openly manipulated public opinion the way some media organisations or social media owners do, there’d be cries of dictatorship before the lunchtime meal deal had been reduced.

Yet when a billionaire does it, it suddenly becomes “the free market of ideas”.

Funny sort of market, really. One where a handful of people own the stalls, the loudspeakers and half the town square, while everyone else stands in the rain trying to hand out photocopies nobody reads.

China solved this problem one way. The Communist Party simply makes sure that no matter how rich you become, you never outrank the state. If a billionaire gets politically ambitious, there’s usually a quiet reminder involving regulators, investigations and a temporary disappearance from magazine covers.

Mind you, that doesn’t make China some corruption-free workers’ paradise either. Power still clusters around insiders, factions and people with the right connections. Human beings remain human beings. It’s just that in China the billionaires tend not to forget who actually holds the whip hand.

The West went the other way. We allowed vast concentrations of wealth while somehow convincing ourselves democracy would remain untouched by it. Which increasingly feels like believing you can install a swimming pool in your lounge and somehow keep the carpet dry.

And you can see the effect. Governments often appear more nervous of upsetting wealthy media owners or platform operators than they do about annoying ordinary voters, who mostly get patted on the head once every few years and then told difficult decisions have had to be made.

The awkward bit is that there is no perfect answer.

Ban direct political donations and the money simply moves sideways into “campaign groups”. Restrict newspapers and influence migrates online. Regulate social media and people scream censorship. Public funding of parties sounds sensible until you remember the public has actually encountered politicians in person.

So perhaps the real defence is not laws alone but a population capable of recognising manipulation when it sees it. Which is unfortunate, because modern politics increasingly relies on keeping people angry, frightened, tribal and permanently distracted.

Still, I’m sure it’s all perfectly healthy.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to read another article written by an “ordinary concerned citizen” who just happens to own three media companies and a strategic interest in telling me immigrants, cyclists and environmental regulations are personally responsible for the collapse of civilisation while his tax arrangements appear to involve fourteen subsidiaries and an address in the Cayman Islands.

Free Speech With a Cover Charge

JD Vance has been at it again, poking his nose into Britain with the delicate touch of a man trying to tune a violin with a claw hammer.

This time it is Henry Nowak’s murder, which Vance has tried to fold into the usual grand theory of European collapse, mass migration and weak liberal elites. There is something quite squalid about it. A young man is dead, his family are grieving, the police response deserves serious examination, and along comes the American vice-president to turn the whole thing into another exhibit in his travelling culture-war museum.

And this is the same Vance who likes to lecture Britain about free speech.

Now, irritatingly, he is not entirely wrong about Britain. We do have a free speech problem. We have too many vaguely worded speech offences, too much policing of the ugly and obnoxious, and a grim little national habit of treating adults as if words might make them burst into flames. We have somehow arrived at the point where a rude tweet, a daft placard or a tasteless joke can acquire the solemnity of a major incident, provided someone official can file it under harm.

So yes, Britain deserves criticism. We have become far too comfortable with the idea that the state should step in when people are offended, distressed or theatrically endangered by words. There is a censorious streak in modern Britain and it is not healthy. It is also not particularly liberal, however often it dresses itself up in the language of safety, dignity and inclusion.

But then along come Musk and Vance, wagging their fingers at Britain as if Trump’s America is some gleaming citadel of liberty. And this is where the whole thing starts to smell strongly of imported snake oil.

America does have stronger legal protection for speech. The First Amendment is a serious constitutional barrier, far stronger than anything we have here. But Trump’s instinct is not free speech as a principle. It is power wearing a free-speech rosette. He likes speech when it praises him, excuses him, funds him or attacks his enemies. When speech annoys him, the machinery starts whirring.

Under Trump, the threat is not always a policeman at the door. It is a visa problem. A grant review. A federal investigation. A regulator suddenly taking an interest. A funding stream put at risk. A university told to behave itself. A broadcaster discovering that free expression becomes much more complicated when the people overseeing licences and mergers have received the political weather report.

That is not liberty. That is lawfare.

The Trump administration has used funding pressure and investigations against universities over campus protest, DEI, transgender policy and antisemitism rules. It has moved from grumbling about individual campuses to trying to reshape the rules of higher education itself. That is not a neutral defence of free expression. It is state power leaning on institutions until they learn which opinions are administratively expensive.

The same pattern has appeared with pro-Palestinian students and academics. The message is not simply that some speech is wrong, or offensive, or poorly judged. It is that if you are foreign, junior, precarious or institutionally exposed, political speech can become an immigration problem. A right you can only vindicate after lawyers, hearings, risk, fear, delay and expense is not enjoyed equally.

That is how chilling effects work. The state does not have to win every case. It only has to make the process frightening enough.

Musk’s position is especially rich. He complains, sometimes with reason, about British speech policing, but his own free speech absolutism has always looked rather more absolute when the speech suits him. This is the man whose platform suspended journalists who had reported on him and the ElonJet row, then sued the Center for Countering Digital Hate after it criticised hate speech on X, only for a judge to throw the case out and say the suit was plainly aimed at punishing criticism.

He has also gone after advertiser groups for choosing not to spend money on his platform. So when Musk talks about free speech, one is entitled to check whether he means free expression as a principle, or free applause as a business model.

Vance is more polished, but the trick is the same. He is right that Britain and Europe have been too casual about restricting speech. There is enough truth in that to make it uncomfortable. But he then tries to use that truth as camouflage for a much uglier politics: one where the state should apparently stop censoring speech, except when the speech is pro-Palestinian, anti-Trump, too academic, too liberal, too foreign, or just inconvenient to the people currently holding the levers.

So yes, let us criticise Britain. We should. The Online Safety mindset, the public order creep, the policing of offensive expression and the bureaucratic urge to manage dissent all deserve a kicking. Britain has too much censorious speech law and too many officials who seem to think liberty is a risk-assessment category.

But Trump’s America is not the cure. It is a different disease.

The British problem is that speech too easily becomes a police matter. The Trump problem is that speech becomes a federal punishment matter. You may still have your constitutional rights, but first you may need to survive the process. And if you are rich enough, connected enough or institutionally protected enough, perhaps you can. If not, good luck. Liberty is available at the counter. Solicitors not included.

So when Musk and Vance lecture Britain about free speech, the answer should not be defensive. It should be brutally simple.

Britain has too much censorious speech law.

But Trump’s America has the First Amendment for those who can afford it, and the federal punishment process for those who can’t.

To be fair, Biden used lawfare too.

Knives, Pearls and Panic

There is, inevitably, a great deal of pearl-clutching about knives at the moment, because Britain does like to discover the existence of sharp objects every few months and then look faintly surprised, as if the bread knife arrived here by dinghy.

The trouble is that all pointed objects are potential weapons. Not just kirpans. Not just hunting knives. Not just zombie knives with names apparently chosen by 14-year-olds with poor lighting in their bedrooms. A chef’s knife is a weapon if you threaten someone with it. A screwdriver is a weapon if you carry it for stabbing. A Stanley knife is a weapon if it comes out during a fight. A sharpened pencil is not exactly ideal for hand-to-hand combat, but I still wouldn’t want one inserted into me by a man having a difficult Tuesday.

This is why the phrase “ban knives” is mostly legislative theatre. You can ban certain designs. You can ban flick knives, zombie knives, disguised blades and other objects whose main purpose appears to be making inadequate men feel briefly cinematic. You can restrict carrying in public. You can prosecute people who threaten others. You can ask whether exemptions, religious or otherwise, are being stretched beyond their proper purpose.

What you cannot do is ban the human capacity to pick up something sharp and behave like a lunatic.

The 3 inch rule is often waved about as if it creates a category of harmless little blades. It doesn’t. It is a bit like allowing guns on the basis that they only work at short range. That may reduce the danger in some circumstances, but it does not make the thing safe if it is pressed against the wrong part of someone’s anatomy. A 3 inch blade is about 7.6 cm of sharp metal, which is quite enough to puncture a lung, sever an artery, or potentially reach the heart. The law is not saying “this knife is safe”. It is drawing a rough administrative line around what people may carry without needing a special reason. That is not medicine. It is compromise with a cutting edge.

Most of us have a small arsenal in the kitchen. Bread knives, steak knives, carving knives, chef’s knives, paring knives. Add the garden shed and you have secateurs, saws, chisels, screwdrivers, pruning knives and probably something rusty whose original purpose has been lost to archaeology. None of this is sinister. It is just life. Unless we plan to carve Sunday lunch with a teaspoon, prune the roses with moral disapproval, and trust that Alan Rickman’s Sheriff of Nottingham won’t discover the spoon drawer, sharp objects are going to remain among us.

The law knows this, which is why it does not simply say “knife bad”. It asks where it is, why it is being carried, what kind of blade it is, whether there is good reason, and what the person does with it. A bread knife in the kitchen is a bread knife. A bread knife tucked inside a coat outside a pub is a rather different proposition, and one requiring an explanation more persuasive than “I’m very committed to ciabatta”.

The Nowak case has dragged the kirpan into the centre of the row, but that also needs care. The issue is not that religion somehow made murder legal. It plainly didn’t. Vickrum Digwa was convicted of murder and of having a bladed article in a public place, so whatever religious argument may have existed around carrying the blade, it offered no protection once it was drawn and used. This case does not prove that a religious exemption is a licence to kill. It proves, rather more grimly, that knife law is often only tested after someone has already been stabbed.

Even if the kirpan exemption did apply before the attack, that does not mean the exemption created the danger. He could just as easily have left the house with a bread knife in his coat and no-one would have known until it appeared. That is the uncomfortable reality the pearl-clutching avoids: the law can regulate reasons for carrying, but it cannot see through fabric. A person carrying a blade is usually only discovered if they are searched, pass through security, behave suspiciously, or use it.

So by all means tighten exemptions where they are being abused, remove the performative murder cutlery from sale, and treat public carrying seriously. But don’t pretend that shouting “ban knives” is a policy. It is a noise made near a microphone. And don’t treat me like a child by pretending the problem is simply the existence of sharp things.

The problem is what people carry, why they carry it, and what they do with it. People can turn almost anything into a weapon, and the law usually only arrives once stupidity, malice or panic has already done the important bit. Unfortunately, stupidity remains stubbornly legal until it picks something up.

Pull Down To Go Forward, Push Up To Reverse

I’ve been driving Mercedes automatics for years and, until recently, never really thought about the gear selector logic at all. You get in, foot on brake, flick the little stalk, off you go. Your hand does it automatically now. Which is probably just as well, because if you stop and think about it for too long, the whole thing starts to unravel slightly.

To go forwards, you pull the selector down.

To go backwards, you push it up.

And the other day it suddenly occurred to me this makes absolutely no intuitive sense whatsoever.

In a manual car, the gear you engage to move off forwards generally involves an upward (or forward) movement somewhere in the process. Reverse, meanwhile, is usually shoved somewhere awkward and unnatural, often involving pushing down (or rearward), lifting a collar, or fumbling about like you’re trying to open an old wall safe.

Then I started thinking about old-school automatics with the selector in the middle. In those, you physically move down through Reverse on the way to Drive. So when you’re already in Drive and want Reverse, you move the selector upwards. Which at least vaguely fits with decades of ingrained instinct.

But Mercedes decided that wasn’t quite complicated enough.

Now, to be fair, I understand the deliberate push-pull action itself. You don’t want people accidentally selecting reverse while reaching for a boiled sweet. Fine. Completely sensible. But why invert the direction as well? Somewhere along the line somebody decided that down should mean forwards and up should mean backwards, and everyone else apparently just accepted this without further discussion.

The strange thing is how quickly people adapt. I’ve driven these cars for years without consciously questioning it. The brain simply rewires itself and gets on with the job, rather like accepting that modern televisions now need software updates before they’ll show you the weather.

But I do slightly worry that if I ever get into a car where the logic is reversed again, I’m going to instinctively select the wrong gear while trying to reverse out of a parking space and instead lurch bonnet-first through the window of Hobbs House Bakery in Chipping Sodbury.

For those unfamiliar with Chipping Sodbury, the parking there sits at ninety degrees to the pavement because the High Street dates from the days when sheep and cattle markets were held there. It’s absurdly wide by modern standards because several hundred years ago people needed room to move livestock around while arguing about the price of a pig.

So there I’ll be, confidently believing I’ve selected reverse, gently lifting off the brake, then suddenly accelerating straight towards a display of artisanal sourdough while everybody outside the coffee shop pauses mid-conversation to watch an elderly Mercedes dismantle a bakery in real time.

And this is increasingly the problem with modern engineering. It takes systems people already understood perfectly well, redesigns them for reasons that probably made sense in a PowerPoint presentation somewhere, then leaves the rest of us operating expensive machinery largely through muscle memory and optimism.

The first fully automatic gearbox, introduced by Oldsmobile back in 1939, managed perfectly adequately without turning the controls into a behavioural science experiment. Fluid couplings, planetary gears, entirely mechanical. No software. No menus. No “driver interface philosophy”. Yet ordinary people somehow coped without demolishing local businesses.

Modern cars, meanwhile, increasingly feel as though they’re designed by people who regard actual drivers as an unfortunate design complication. Every function is hidden behind touchscreens, submenus, haptic buttons, or steering wheel controls so sensitive you accidentally reset the trip computer while sneezing.

And Mercedes are particularly susceptible to this sort of thing because German engineering occasionally disappears into its own intellectual fog. Most of the time this produces magnificent engines and doors that shut with the sound of a bank vault. Every now and then, however, it produces a gear selector system that quietly overwrites forty years of learned instinct in the background like a firmware update.

The worrying thing is I now barely notice it.

Which probably means the system has won.

Unsupervised in Lidl

Ideas for blogs rarely arrive when I’m sitting nobly at a desk, pen in hand, waiting for the Muse to alight on my shoulder like a culturally literate pigeon.

They usually descend during moments of mild ennui, when the brain has wandered off because the body is doing something dull. Trying to find the right washer in a tin of apparently identical washers. Standing in a queue. Waiting for paint to dry. Wondering why the thing that fitted perfectly five minutes ago now appears to have been designed for a different car.

Or, in this case, after inspecting the Middle of Lidl and finding it wanting. Hay was off buying vittles in another aisle, so I was left unattended, which is usually when the trouble starts.

I was browsing the serried ranks of quaintly named ciders when the thunderbolt landed.

Not a political insight. Not a profound reflection on modern Britain. Not even a useful thought about what we’d gone in to buy.

A cider brand.

Stoma Cider.

There it is. You can see it already, can’t you?

A brown glass bottle. Slightly distressed label. A woodcut apple. Possibly a badger. Some sepia nonsense about traditional methods, small batch pressing, and an old Somerset family who’ve been making cider since before the invention of trousers.

I mentioned it to Hay when she returned, which is where all the great brands are born. Not in a converted barn full of people in gilets muttering about market positioning, but under fluorescent lighting, next to bottles with names like Old Root Bastard and a suspiciously cheap pear cider.

At which point Hay didn’t merely laugh. She went off like a fire alarm. The sort of laugh that makes people two aisles away stop comparing washing powder and quietly wonder whether security should be informed.

That is the entire business plan, really. If a name can make your wife become a public disturbance in the cider aisle of Lidl, it has market traction. Forget focus groups. Forget brand analysis. The Lidl Laugh Test is far more reliable.

At this point, of course, the thing should have been left alone. A sensible man would have enjoyed the laugh, bought the cider, and moved on. But no. I then improved it, in the way that a man improves a small chip in a windscreen by hitting it with a hammer.

Stoma Cider.

By Colostomy Breweries.

Now it wasn’t merely a bad cider name. It had a parent company. A backstory. A visitor centre. A tasting room. A gift shop. Possibly a loyalty card. Perhaps even a laminated sign near the handwash. The whole enterprise had gone from regrettable pun to fully incorporated rural nightmare.

And then, because no bad idea is complete until it has a commercial strategy, I realised I had solved the supply chain problem as well.

This is where so many small brands go wrong. They make something people like, demand rises, and they immediately start thinking about new premises, bigger vats, distribution contracts, forklifts, payroll, compliance, and a factory estate somewhere just outside Swindon. Before long the whole thing has gone from charming cottage enterprise to a meeting about palletisation.

Then, inevitably, the novelty wears off. The people who were desperate to buy it when they couldn’t get it have now got a cupboard full of the stuff, the early adopters have moved on to fermented nettle cordial, and the manufacturer is sitting in a unit full of lease payments, stainless steel tanks and unsold stock. Demand collapses, cash flow goes through the floor, and the whole brave enterprise ends with an administrator wondering what to do with 14,000 branded coasters and a pallet of tasting glasses nobody has the heart to open.

No. That is amateur thinking.

The proper answer is much simpler. You don’t keep expanding production every time demand rises. You keep supply tight, let demand exceed it, and then allow the price to do what prices do when people want more of something than you’re prepared to make.

That way supply remains comfortably within the limits of one shed, two pressings, and a man called Brian who comes in on Tuesdays. Meanwhile, the price rises, the margin improves, and the inability to buy the stuff becomes part of the appeal. Scarcity is not a problem. Scarcity is branding with a waiting list.

Several brands have learned this, usually after discovering that the public will pay extra for inconvenience if you describe it as exclusivity.

And this is where my friend Simon comes in, because Simon actually presses apples and makes small batches. This is dangerous, because it means the whole thing is not entirely theoretical. There is a man within shouting distance of reality who owns the sort of equipment that could turn a joke in Lidl into a liquid regrettable decision.

Better still, Simon is a pathologist, so he would probably get the idea immediately. There are not many cider ventures where prior familiarity with human plumbing counts as relevant market insight, but here we are.

I could offer him the idea.

Simon, are you listening?

This is how empires begin. One man has apples. Another man has a stupid name and experience in sales and marketing. Between them lies opportunity, disgrace, and possibly a label best not examined too closely before lunch.

So Stoma Cider would never be available everywhere. Absolutely not. That would be vulgar. You’d have to know someone. Or have once met someone who knew someone. Perhaps a waiting list at the village shop in Black Pockrington. Three bottles per household, unless Simon has had a heavy pressing week, in which case two.

People would complain, obviously, but only in the way people complain about things they secretly want more.

“I tried to get some Stoma, but it’s sold out again.”

Exactly. That’s not failure. That’s premium positioning.

For those not blessed with a working knowledge of medical plumbing, a stoma is not normally associated with a refreshing drink on a summer afternoon. It has surgical implications. It suggests not so much an orchard as a discharge plan. It doesn’t make you think of hay bales, wassailing, and a cheerful man in a flat cap. It makes you think of leaflets in a hospital corridor and someone saying, “The nurse will be along in a minute.”

But that is probably why it works.

Modern drinks branding is so painfully over-managed that every bottle sounds as if it has been named in a room with beanbags and a man saying “journey” too often. Every cider is something like Orchard Mist, Twisted Root, or Thirsty Badger. They all claim to be bold, authentic and handcrafted, usually by apples that have enjoyed a richer emotional life than most people.

Stoma cuts through all that.

It doesn’t flirt. It doesn’t whisper. It doesn’t arrive wearing tweed and pretending to know the farmer. It walks into the bar, sits down heavily, and says, “You’ll remember me.”

And you would.

Nobody forgets ordering a pint of Stoma.

“Two lagers, a Guinness and a Stoma, please.”

The pub would fall silent. The barman would look up slowly. Somewhere in the snug, an old boy would put down his Racing Post. Even the dog would sense that a line had been crossed.

Then there is the corporate slogan, because once you’ve created Colostomy Breweries you might as well go down with the ship.

Colostomy Breweries - putting the output back into hospitality.

That one would probably need testing with a less hysterical focus group than Hay in Lidl.

And in fairness, some words have luggage. You can’t just slap them on a bottle and pretend people won’t notice. A cider called Aneurysm would struggle, however crisp the finish. Thrombosis Pale Ale probably has limited festival appeal. Colonoscopy Gin might be beautifully botanical, but it’s still going to face resistance at Waitrose.

But Stoma has that strange, ugly strength that proper old names sometimes have. It’s short. It’s memorable. It sounds almost agricultural if you don’t know what it means. You could imagine it being a village near Taunton.

“Lovely place, Stoma. Good pub. Bit damp in winter. Terrible waiting list.”

That’s the problem with language. One person hears a crisp, modern cider brand. Another hears a consultant explaining life after surgery. Which is probably what marketing is, once you strip away the lanyards and the expensive biscuits.

So I think Stoma Cider deserves a chance.

Not a large chance. That would defeat the entire pricing strategy. Not a supermarket listing and a celebrity endorsement. Just a cautious trial run at a village fete, preferably one with limited internet access and a first-aid tent. Put it on a trestle table next to the chutney, price it at three quid a bottle, sell out in twenty minutes, then bring it back next year at seven quid with a numbered label and a small card saying allocation only.

In practice, which is usually where British life ends up, three men in waxed jackets would buy a bottle each for a joke, drink it behind the tombola stall, and spend the rest of the afternoon saying, “Actually, it’s not bad.”

And that, frankly, is how most successful British products should begin. Not with a launch strategy, not with influencers, and certainly not with a brand consultant called Ollie.

Just a bad idea, a good apple, Simon possibly checking whether his press is free next weekend, and Hay still somewhere near the perry trying to breathe.