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?