The Billionaire Backing the Man Who Only Profits by Losing

Reform UK has just banked a £9 million cheque from Christopher Harborne, a Thailand-based crypto investor whose portfolio runs from aviation to defence tech and enough offshore finance to make a Bond villain blush. It is the largest political donation ever made by a living donor in Britain. And it landed suspiciously soon after Nigel Farage publicly plugged Harborne’s crypto company and told the industry: “I am your champion.” British politics appears to have entered its product-placement era. Coming soon, Prime Minister’s Questions, brought to you by a decentralised blockchain asset of your choice.

This is the reality behind the “party of the ordinary bloke.” Five MPs funded like a hedge fund experiment. Farage has spent years railing against globalist elites, yet his biggest backer is a global financier whose tax footprint spans several time zones. If Harborne were any more global he would need a set of maritime charts. The voters get the flag waving; the donors get the deregulation.

And what does this money buy? Not policies that will ever be implemented. Farage has no intention of governing. Governing would kill the business model stone dead. You can’t stand at the sidelines screaming that everything is broken if you are suddenly responsible for fixing any of it. The real money is in shouting, not doing. His income streams depend on perpetual outrage: media gigs, speaking tours, brand deals, GB News eruptions, and whatever fresh side-hustles the algorithm demands. Farage is wealthier losing than he would ever be winning.

That is why Reform’s policies are so extravagant. They are not written to be enacted. They are written to create noise, shift the Overton Window, and make the established parties panic and follow his lead. He drags the political centre to the right while staying safely outside accountability. It is exactly what his backers want: a Britain softened up for radical deregulation, weak public institutions, and a tax regime that smiles warmly on capital.

Lee Anderson has simply enrolled in the same finishing school. Ashfield’s part-time MP, full-time pundit, and Farage’s most diligent apprentice. His GB News contract pays roughly £100,000 a year for a few hours of weekly bluster, more than many Ashfield families see in two years. It is the natural extension of Farage’s method: use the constituency seat as a prop, then spend your actual working week under studio lights.

And his constituency work? Ethereal. No steady trail of surgeries or local engagement. No visible presence unless you stumble across him during election season. A few locals have noted the pattern: he was everywhere when he wanted votes and nowhere when he was needed. Meanwhile the camera lights stay warm and the studio chair is always occupied. Outrage travels well. Casework does not.

Reform has therefore become less a political party than a talent agency for the aggrieved. It identifies individuals who perform indignation reliably, monetises them, wraps them in the Union Flag, and then sells the whole package as “authenticity.” The voters are the audience, not the stakeholders. The donors are the real clients.

Farage perfected this model years ago: never win, never govern, never be accountable. Just keep the show running and the cheques arriving. Anderson is the apprentice mimicking the master, possibly dreaming of his own upgrade from constituency to camera if Ashfield eventually wises up.

This is the modern political racket: present yourself as the voice of ordinary people, funded by men who would struggle to point to Ashfield on a map. Promise the unachievable. Blame everyone else when it fails. Bank the money. Stoke the culture war. Repeat. Britain grows poorer, angrier and more distracted, while a handful of performers grow richer by pretending to represent the very people they barely bother to visit.

Follow the money and the illusion collapses. Reform UK is not a people’s uprising. It is a very well-financed performance — starring men who would rather be in the studio than in their constituencies, and funded by a crypto billionaire who expects a return on investment. The voters get the slogans. The donors get the influence. And the country gets played.

Shouldn't Have Gone to SpecSavers

I have used Glasses Direct varifocals for decades without a hiccup. They arrived by post, I put them on, and the world behaved itself. No drama. No geometry experiments. No unexpected gradients. The only real drawback was the obvious one. Being a postal service, there is no fitting phase. No nudging frames. No marking pupil height. No making sure the lenses sit where your eyes expect them to be. Eventually that small irritation persuaded me to switch to SpecSavers for a proper fitting and what I assumed would be an upgrade.

What I received was not an upgrade. It was an adventure.

From the moment I put the new glasses on, the ground appeared so close that I wondered whether someone had lowered the entire village by a couple of feet while I was in the shop. Visually, the world now rises to meet me. Every corridor seems to slope upwards. Every pavement feels like a gentle incline. Even my kitchen floor appears to have taken early retirement and moved to the Lake District.

But then come the legs. Because the ground looks nearer, my stride adjusts. My balance recalibrates. My body tries to compensate for the imaginary hill my eyes insist is there. And suddenly the tactile feedback is the polar opposite of the visual cue. My legs have decided I am walking downhill. Not slightly. Properly downhill. As if gravity has chosen a new direction to amuse itself.

So here I am. A man both climbing and descending at the same time. Schrödinger on a stroll. My eyes shout uphill. My legs shout downhill. My brain stands in the middle trying to negotiate a ceasefire while I wobble across the room like a tourist three pints into their first cider festival.

This is the inevitable outcome when the corridor height in a varifocal lens is a few millimetres north of correct. Instead of looking through the distance zone when I walk, I plunge straight into the intermediate zone. The world tilts up. My legs stick to the truth and insist there is no hill at all. My senses, usually such cooperative creatures, are now engaged in a daily turf war.

I shall return to SpecSavers and explain all this calmly. What I need is not a topographical reinterpretation of Old Sodbury. I need lenses that permit eyes, legs and gravity to agree on the general layout of the landscape.

Until the correction is made, I remain a walking optical paradox. A man traversing a perfectly flat floor while simultaneously going uphill and downhill. Proof that even a tiny measurement error can turn a simple stroll into a philosophical problem.

Any Colour, So Long as it's Black

I nipped into Kwik Fit for a tracking job and was lured by a carpet display that promised every shade under the sun. Beige, grey, taupe, something that looked suspiciously like wet Labrador. A veritable rainbow of options. You could practically taste the choice.

So I scan the QR code, like a dutiful modern motorist, and tap in the registration and postcode. Up pops the grand total of my personalised, tailored, luxury options.

Black.

Just black.

It was like watching a conjuror whip the cloth off a banquet table only to reveal a single Pot Noodle. And the thing is, my 1993 Mercedes 500SL left the factory in beige. The leather is beige. The carpets were beige. The whole interior is a stately procession of beige. You could lose a digestive biscuit in there and never see it again.

But Kwik Fit’s mystical database had other ideas. In its mind, the R129 clearly only ever came in one interior: coal mine chic. Never mind the actual car. Never mind the colour samples literally hanging on a hook ten inches from their till. The computer had spoken.

It was Henry Ford all over again. Any colour you like, so long as it’s black.

You can almost picture the programmer, somewhere in a distant office, deciding that every Mercedes built before the millennium must have been upholstered in the same shade as a Victorian funeral.

The absurdity, of course, is that the beige I wanted was sitting right there on the sample board. I held it in my hands. I could feel the beige. I could commune with the beige. But ask the QR code, and suddenly I’m only allowed to order something that looks like a bin liner with stitching.

The truth is simple. The car knows it is beige. I know it is beige. The sample board knows it is beige. Everyone knows it is beige except the one thing that claims to know what I need.

The system.

And so the only way to get what the car actually came with is to march up to the counter, point at the colour I want and inform them that my SL did not, in fact, roll out of Sindelfingen as a small obsidian cavern on wheels.

In short, the computer says no, but the carpet says yes.

Beige forever. Black only when you’re Henry Ford.

Banter, Denial and Blind Panic on Radio 4

The Radio 4 interview just now with Richard Tice should be bottled and sold as a diagnostic tool for political evasiveness. Within thirty seconds he managed to tie himself in a knot so tight it could have moored a tanker.

Pressed about Nigel Farage’s schoolboy antisemitic comments, Tice opened with the classic minimisation routine. It was “playground banter,” he said, as if racism somehow becomes charming when delivered in short trousers. That line only works if the story is true, which of course he realised a heartbeat too late. Cornered, he lurched into the opposite argument entirely. Suddenly the accusers were lying. The interviewer, to their credit, skewered him on the contradiction and let him flounder in it.

This is the Reform method in miniature. Start by brushing it off, then pivot to denial, then attack the messenger. It is the same tired routine whenever Farage’s past pops up. If any Labour MP had this hanging over them, Tice would already be marching up and down College Green screaming about moral decay. But for his own leader, the standards evaporate on contact.

The telling moment was the panic in his voice when he realised what he’d said. You could almost hear the gears grinding as he tried to reverse course without admitting he’d just confirmed the allegation. He couldn’t. So he lashed out instead. That is not a defence. It is a flustered man trying to keep the cult intact.

And that is the deeper truth here. The entire Reform brand relies on Farage being the great untouchable. Question him and the edifice cracks, so they twist themselves into ever smaller shapes to protect him. But a movement that demands this level of contortion from its lieutenants cannot be taken seriously. If they cannot hold a consistent line on a schoolyard slur, they are hardly fit to run a parish council, never mind a country.

Tactical Silence and Strategic Timing

Farage has been whispering to donors about a supposed Tory–Reform pact, inflating his relevance while avoiding any interview where he might be asked about his schoolboy antisemitism. He cannot risk scrutiny, so he operates through rumour and friendly intermediaries. It is the familiar pattern: theatrical confidence in private, strategic silence in public.

At the same time, some want Labour to campaign openly for reversing Brexit. The impulse is understandable. The economic evidence is overwhelming, public opinion has shifted, and Reform’s entire identity depends on Brexit nostalgia. On the surface, Labour could seize that ground tomorrow.

But timing dictates effectiveness. Labour will need to make a clear case for rebuilding ties with Europe. It is the only argument with enough weight to disrupt the polls. Yet more bad fiscal news is unavoidable in the short term, and any Brexit message released now would vanish into the general din while giving Reform a premature boost.

The sensible course is to hold fire. Let voters first see signs of stabilisation in public services and the wider economy. People need to feel the difference before they are asked to accept the strategic logic of re-engagement with Europe. Once that groundwork exists, Labour can frame Brexit reversal not as an ideological gesture but as a practical element of national recovery.

Deploy the argument too early and it dissipates. Too late and it loses impact. Timed to coincide with the run-in to a general election, it would dominate the national conversation and overshadow the Opposition’s theatrics, while reminding voters precisely who caused the damage and who is repairing it.

Farage understands this. A mainstream, economically grounded case for returning to the single market would make his entire political offer redundant. Hence the whispering about pacts, the avoidance of scrutiny, and the hope that the moment never comes.

Labour will have to make the Brexit argument. They simply need to choose the moment when the country is receptive and the contrast with the past is most visible. Used then, it could be decisive. And Farage knows it, which is why he is currently hiding behind rumour rather than facing a microphone.

Shuttle Diplomacy

Henry Kissinger, bless him, spent the 1970s performing what became known as Shuttle Diplomacy while rattling around the Middle East in what was essentially a glorified Romahome with wings. A Boeing 707 fitted out with a photocopier, some folding chairs, a stack of briefing papers and, if they were lucky, a packet of biscuits that had not yet fused into a single geological formation. It was diplomacy powered by burnt filter coffee, jet lag and the sheer will to keep the lid on World War Three.

He would hop between Cairo and Tel Aviv like a slightly harassed delivery driver, shuttling agreements that always needed one more tweak. Sleep was something other people did. Furnishings were strictly no-frills. You imagine the seat cushions had all the give of a church pew. It was a flying office cubicle, complete with the faint aroma of panic and stale suits. Yet somehow, out of that airborne Romahome came disengagement accords, ceasefires and a brief reduction in the risk of global nuclear toastiness.

Fast forward to the modern era and we have a very different vision of statesmanship. The President climbs aboard a Boeing palace. Four thousand square feet of floating executive privilege. Leather sofas that probably cost more than the GDP of a mid-sized village. A private suite with a shower that likely has better pressure than most of Britain’s housing stock. Communications so secure that even the NSA would need to knock first. It is a luxury motorhome on permanent standby, only this one can scramble nuclear bombers while you are enjoying a second helping of crème brûlée.

So here is the contrast. Kissinger, the workhorse diplomat, scribbling on draft agreements while turbulence sends his biro skating across the page. Trump, the airborne showman, projecting national power in the form of quilted upholstery and a press corps separated from him by more square footage than a suburban semi. One is the weary mediator negotiating peace in a flying shoebox. The other is effectively saying look at my massive plane, now take me seriously.

What does this tell us? Real diplomacy does not need chandeliers and gold-plated lavatories. It needs grit, a half-functioning Xerox machine and the stamina to keep knocking heads together until someone signs a piece of paper.

The Romahome got Shuttle Diplomacy done. The luxury motorhome looks good on television.

I know which one I would trust when history is on the line.

The Backlog Alibi

I was reading, with the usual mix of disbelief and deja vu, the government’s latest bright idea for modernising justice. Jury trials, we are now told, will be reserved for offences carrying more than three years inside. Three years. As if that were the judicial equivalent of a parking ticket. And naturally, this is all in service of that sacred national priority: clearing the backlog. Efficiency at all costs. Preferably yours.

The thin end of the wedge has now been replaced with something approaching a hydraulic ram. Crimes that tear families apart, vaporise careers and carry lifelong stigma are to be dispatched without the inconvenience of twelve ordinary citizens. Domestic abuse, violent assaults, stalking, hate crimes, serious fraud, dangerous driving causing injury. All now deemed small enough to be handled on the quick by a bench designed for bus queues and disorderly drunks. Magistrates, to their credit, do heroic work. But they are not a substitute for public judgement when years of a person’s life hang in the balance.

And still we are told this is necessary. The system is clogged. The courts are creaking. Juries take too long. It is remarkable how often governments blame the very safeguards they spent a decade starving. If you neglect your house for long enough, the roof will leak. The modernisers’ solution is not to repair it, but to remove the rafters so the water has nothing left to drip through.

Because the backlog is not a natural disaster. It is not an act of God. It is the predictable consequence of empty judgeships, shuttered courtrooms, gutted legal aid, collapsing disclosure units and court buildings that look like a set from a post apocalyptic drama. If they genuinely wanted to fix the system, they could fill the vacancies, restore legal aid, reopen and repair the court estate, fund the CPS so it can cope with digital evidence, and divert the genuine small stuff out of the criminal courts entirely. But that would require money and political honesty, two substances now rarer than a functioning ceiling at Blackfriars Crown Court.

What we get instead is centralisation dressed up as efficiency. Public oversight replaced with bureaucratic throughput. And now, with this three year threshold, a constitutional Rubicon calmly crossed. Once you accept that years of imprisonment can be handed out without a jury, the only thing left to decide is how far you want to expand the definition of minor.

So if this change is to be rammed through, then the very minimum - the absolute bare minimum - is a hard sunset clause. Not the usual ministerial waffle about temporary measures, but a legally binding cut off tied to the backlog falling below an explicit, numerical threshold. The figure should match the level at which the courts actually functioned before austerity hollowed them out. Something like the 2010 caseload, when the system creaked but still worked.

Once the backlog sits below that figure for twelve consecutive months, the restriction should expire automatically. No ministerial discretion. No power to extend it by statutory instrument at 4.59pm on a Friday. If this really is an emergency tool, it must switch itself off when the emergency ends.

And the whole arrangement needs independent monitoring by the NAO or similar, reporting quarterly so the government cannot play hide and seek with the numbers.

If ministers refuse such safeguards, the truth writes itself. A temporary measure with no mechanism to end it is not temporary. It is permanent reform written in disappearing ink. And the pretence collapses: the backlog is not the motive. It is the alibi.

You do not repair a leaking roof by removing the rafters. And you do not fix a backlog by removing the public from justice. Unless, of course, speed is not the point. Control is.

The New Deal

Labour keeps promising renewal but behaves like a timid caretaker government polishing the accounts while the building crumbles. The New Deal lessons are not subtle. Act boldly. Invest visibly. Strengthen people so they can strengthen the economy. Labour instead offers a cautious remix of the last decade, as if restraint were a policy rather than a holding pattern.

Roosevelt understood that you do not revive a nation by muttering about fiscal headroom. You rebuild confidence by rebuilding the country. Americans saw new roads, grids, bridges, forests and public works. That visibility mattered. Labour’s first months have delivered none of that. Taxes up. Investment down. Infrastructure stuck. Nothing on the scale that tells the public that the decline is being reversed. It is managerial drift dressed as prudence.

Then the self imposed straitjacket. Labour insists on fiscal rules that treat investment like a guilty pleasure. Day to day restraint is fine. Every household understands that. But refusing to borrow to rebuild a collapsing country is not caution. It is negligence. Britain’s grid is antiquated. Rail is creaking. Water companies are Victorian in everything except executive pay. Housing supply has collapsed. These are not problems you solve with polite incrementalism. The roof is leaking and Labour is worried about the optics of hiring a roofer.

And welfare. The New Deal grasped that a population in permanent insecurity cannot fuel growth. Confidence is an economic asset. Yet Labour toys with tightening and sanctions, as if austerity had not already hollowed out household resilience. Millions remain one unexpected bill or broken boiler from crisis. You cannot build national prosperity on that foundation. It is like trying to build a skyscraper on a swamp.

The inequality problem sits at the heart of all this. The UK is a low growth, high inequality economy where wealth is locked up in property and passive holdings because there is nowhere productive to put it. Labour whispers about aspiration then reaches instinctively for broad based tax rises that hit workers harder than wealth. It is the wrong instinct for a country in decline.

And here is the point Labour refuses to articulate. The argument that taxing wealth makes it flee is only half a thought. Wealth does not flee taxation. It flees stagnation. It flees a country with failing infrastructure, unstable planning rules, collapsing public services, weak demand, unreliable energy and no clear national direction. In that environment capital hides or leaves because there is nothing worth investing in.

But if you tax wealth fairly while creating the conditions for new investment you do the opposite. You unlock creative wealth. You turn passive holdings into productive capital. Investors swarm to countries where the grid is being upgraded and the planning system actually permits building. They go where skills are rising and where the state is a partner rather than a bystander. A modest tax on stagnant wealth to fund a national rebuilding programme is not a hostile act. It is the entry fee to a growing market. The wealthy do not avoid that. They queue for it.

The most dangerous part of Labour’s caution is political. When a government hesitates during national decline it creates a vacuum. Into that vacuum steps Reform. Farage will offer anger and spectacle where Labour offers paperwork. And if Labour hands them that opening the consequences will be grim. Reform’s programme is a recession in waiting. Unfunded tax cuts for the rich. Deregulation that strips protections. A bonfire of standards. A state shrunk to the bone. And the quiet rewarding of wealthy backers while the public pays the price. Truss was a preview. Farage is the feature length version.

History shows what happens when mainstream parties choose timidity during a national slump. The demagogues move in. Roosevelt understood that inaction invites extremism. Labour shows every sign of forgetting it. They have a historic majority and a country on its knees. This should be the moment for a national reconstruction plan that is visible, unapologetic and ambitious. Instead we have drift. Drift is not neutral. Drift is an invitation.

If Labour does not rebuild the country, Reform will tear it apart and sell off the pieces. If Labour does not harness wealth for creative investment, Farage will harness it for extraction. If Labour does not choose the New Deal path, Britain will continue its decline into a low growth backwater run for the benefit of a narrow elite.

The clock is ticking. Britain needs rebuilding, not bookkeeping.

Reeves' Drama Takes a Kafkaesque Turn

The funniest part of the current drama is not Reeves’s handling of the numbers. It is the right wing’s reaction to it. For weeks the Conservatives and Reform have been shrieking that Labour is steering Britain toward economic ruin. Now that the data show the economy in better shape than Reeves had implied, they are suddenly incandescent that things are not as bad as they insisted. It is political ventriloquism of the cheapest variety: make the puppet say whatever line helps you that morning and hope no one notices your lips moving.

Yesterday’s post set out the real distinction: past Chancellors stretched the fog of the future; Reeves is accused of shading the clarity of the present. That is the substantive critique. But the response from the Tories and Reform is something else entirely. They cannot decide whether to condemn her for overselling catastrophe or underselling recovery, so they are now trying to do both at the same time. Labour, apparently, is ruining the economy and also hiding the fact that the economy is not ruined. This is not analysis; it is an exercise in shouting at clouds.

It would be easier to take their outrage seriously if either party had a credible economic record. The Conservatives left a trail of self inflicted craters: austerity that throttled growth, Brexit which shrank trade and investment, and the Truss experiment that sent gilt yields into orbit. Reform, meanwhile, offers the fiscal equivalent of a shopping list written after three pints: £80 billion of unfunded tax cuts, mass deportations that would cost more than they save, and energy policy that treats geology as an optional extra. When these two complain about Labour’s “honesty,” one is reminded of burglars giving lectures on home security.

And the markets, inconveniently, refused to join their hysteria. As soon as the Budget landed, gilt yields fell, sterling firmed, and investors gave a small, audible sigh of relief. Whatever one thinks of Reeves’s tone, the people who actually lend money to Britain appeared more reassured by her numbers than by the opposition’s theatrics. That alone renders the Tory and Reform complaints faintly absurd. If the economy were truly in flames, the bond market would not be cooling down.

What we are seeing, then, is not a principled objection to the handling of public accounts. It is a political class on the right that needs the country to feel permanently anxious to justify its own relevance. A stable, slowly improving economy under Labour spoils their script. So they howl that Labour is too gloomy, then howl that Labour is not gloomy enough, and hope no one spots the contradiction.

You wish they would make up their minds. They won’t. Confusion is the point. It lets them attack from every angle without ever committing to a coherent argument. In the end, the markets look steadier than the opposition, which is not a comparison anyone aspiring to govern should invite.

Schrodiger's Schools

The Telegraph wants you to believe Labour’s VAT policy has unleashed some sort of educational Ragnarok, as if gentle little prep schools were happily skipping through sunlit meadows until Rachel Reeves came over the hill with a flamethrower. The numbers tell a very different story.

Private-school closures have been happening for over a decade, at a steady rate of roughly 70 to 80 a year. Not occasionally, not as an aberration, but every single year since 2013. That was under the Conservatives, when VAT wasn’t even in the same hemisphere as school fees. If the sector is now pretending that closures only began when Labour arrived, it’s either wilful amnesia or outright dishonesty.

Look at the data. Between 2013 and 2023, around 847 independent schools closed. That’s an industry quietly shedding four per cent of itself annually while nobody in the Tory press batted an eyelid. Why? Because it didn’t suit the narrative. Those closures were blamed on demographics, birth-rates, Brexit, staffing shortages, rising energy costs, pension contributions, insurance hikes, and fee inflation pricing out the middle classes. In other words, real-world pressures.

Then Labour announces VAT on fees and suddenly every prep school with a dodgy balance sheet and a leaking roof is reborn as a heroic martyr of socialism. The Telegraph can barely contain itself, breathlessly reporting each closure as if Reeves had personally padlocked the gates.

The problem for the story is the data. The first year with VAT in place doesn’t show a spike at all. If anything, closures so far sit below the long-run average. Even Schools Week, which has no dog in the fight, has noted that only a handful of schools can credibly blame VAT as the primary cause. The rest were struggling long before the policy was announced. Many had already filed their notices. Some had lost pupils for years. A good number were simply too small to survive demographic change.

It’s the classic trick: take an existing trend, ignore a decade of evidence, blame Labour, shout “raid”, and hope the readership doesn’t look up the numbers.

If you want a genuine scandal, it isn’t that small private schools with fragile finances have finally tipped over. It’s that the state sector has been hollowed out for fourteen years while the same newspapers defended every tax break, privilege and loophole for the wealthiest. They now cry crocodile tears for schools with 60 pupils while never once acknowledging the thousands of state schools that have been fighting overcrowding, crumbling buildings and real-terms budget cuts.

Labour’s VAT change didn’t cause a crisis in the private sector. It merely exposed one.

And the real irony? The money raised will be used to stabilise the state schools that educate 93 per cent of Britain’s children. If that offends the Telegraph, it says far more about them than it does about Rachel Reeves.

Massaging the Figures

Chancellors have always massaged the figures, of course. It is practically the Treasury initiation ritual. Osborne talked as if Armageddon were scheduled for Tuesday week. Hammond invoked productivity gremlins lurking in every spreadsheet cell. Sunak veered between sunshine and thunder depending on which wing of his party he needed to placate. Hunt conjured fiscal holes of varying diameters like a magician rummaging through a hat he found in a skip. But in every case the trick was the same: take an uncertain forecast and squeeze it until it squeals.

What they did not do was mis-describe the numbers sitting in front of them. Their sleight of hand relied on the fog of the future, not the clarity of the present ledger. Everyone in Westminster plays fast and loose with projections. Very few play games with the in-year accounts.

That is what makes the Reeves affair distinctive. By late October the Treasury had been told borrowing was running lower than expected and that the supposed fiscal shortfall had essentially evaporated. The in-year books were healthier, not sicker. Yet the public was treated to a sombre procession of warnings about “tough decisions” and an “urgent need” for tax rises. This was not Osborne hyperventilating about where we might be in 2025. This was the Chancellor shading the story of where we actually were.

And the markets noticed. The moment the Budget dropped, gilt yields fell and sterling strengthened. Investors, who are not known for their sentimental loyalty to Chancellors, treated the documents as a stabilising event. Thirty-year gilt yields saw their biggest one-day fall since April and the pound ticked upwards. A relief rally, yes, but a rally all the same. In other words: the people who actually lend Britain money were calmer than the Chancellor’s own rhetoric suggested. The City was reassured by the numbers she finally presented, not the crisis she had trailed beforehand.

Reeves does have a partial defence. She can point to long-term pressures: an ageing population, NHS pay, defence spending, welfare caseloads, debt interest. All real, all sizeable. But she did not bother to draw that distinction at the time. Instead she leaned on the old Treasury habit of conjuring a sense of impending doom from a set of present-day figures that did not support it.

So yes, she is in good company — but for the wrong reason. Past Chancellors dramatised the future. Reeves is accused of dramatising the present. A shabby tradition may explain her behaviour, but it does not excuse it. If Westminster insists on spinning the forecasts, fine, that is politics. But it should leave the current ledger alone. The markets certainly seemed more grounded in reality than the Chancellor’s pre-Budget tone. Which is a sentence no Chancellor should ever want written about them.

Ukrainian Corruption

Ukraine gets lectured about corruption as if it were some uniquely Ukrainian vice rather than the standard issue hardware left behind when the USSR collapsed. The old Soviet model produced corruption the way a damp cellar produces mould. Shortages, bureaucracy, and an economy held together by string guaranteed that everyone learned to grease a palm just to keep the lights on. Every post Soviet republic inherited the same problem.

What matters is what happened next. Ukraine, with all the wobble of a newly reformed smoker walking past an open packet, chose the path of cleaning up. Slowly, awkwardly, often painfully, it built transparency tools, sacked ministers, and let journalists and investigators do their work. The fact that Zelenskyy’s right hand man is under investigation is not proof of terminal rot; it is proof of function. A corrupt system hides corruption. A reforming system drags it, blinking, into daylight.

Russia took a different view. Rather than disinfecting the Soviet culture of graft, Putin industrialised it. He welded the security services, oligarchs and political class into a single machine whose operating principle is extraction. Russia isn’t fighting corruption; Russia is corruption. The state is a vertical protection racket where loyalty is bought, money is skimmed before it even hits the ledger, and anyone who points this out receives a sudden lesson in gravity from an open window. It is, in short, a neo fascist oligarchic kleptocracy that pretends to be a country.

And then there is Trump, who looks at both systems like a man touring potential holiday homes. He is not corrupt in the discreet little envelope sense. He is corrupt in the spray tan and gold tap sense, where the trick is to do it so openly that the sheer audacity paralyses everyone. He rented out his own hotel rooms to the Secret Service, allowed foreign governments to buy influence by booking his ballrooms, and treated the presidency as a franchising opportunity for his offspring. In Ukraine, corruption is a legacy. In Russia, it is the governing principle. In Trump’s world, it is a business model awaiting scale.

Left uninterrupted, you can see exactly where he’d take it: the Russian route. Hollow out the institutions, pack the courts with loyalists, turn public money into private revenue streams, and call it patriotism. His admiration for Putin isn’t ideological; it is professional envy.

So when people smugly say Ukraine is corrupt, they are missing the obvious. Ukraine is the messy house being cleaned after decades of Soviet grime. Russia is the house where the windows are nailed shut and the bodies are still in the basement. And Trump is the estate agent insisting it just needs a lick of paint before he moves in.