As Andy Burnham was on the verge of becoming prime minister, a headline in the Guardian read: “Burnham promises an end to Labour infighting after taking over as party leader.”

Squint and you might see something else. Like one of those pictures with ambiguous meanings (the space between two outlined faces forming the shape of a vase, and so on).

‘Man who became prime minister thanks to Labour infighting promises to end Labour infighting…’

Blink and it’s a silhouette of two faces again. Blink once more and it’s a vase used as a murder weapon in a game of political Cluedo.

Since actually becoming prime minister yesterday, Burnham has promoted his allies (usual political behaviour) and seemingly pushed aside anyone closely aligned to Sir Keir Starmer (ditto).

As for the rest, what is there to say? Some of us, it’s a select club with plenty of room to mingle, think Starmer had a rough deal from his party. Forcing him out was an act of cowardice, a panicky surrender to fragile Labour egos. But it happened, so meet the new boss. Burnham gave a good speech in Downing Street, coherent and passionate, and he makes all the right noises. Can he deliver? Too early to say, but here’s hoping.

Nigel Farage, by the way, says it was him who deposed Starmer. Yeah, whatever. Incidentally, Farage and his gang increasingly resemble children who knock on doors and run away. They shout abuse through letterboxes but scarper whenever anyone asks about that five million quid.

Meanwhile Farage hides in one of his many houses, possibly High Dudgeon Manor, on Quids In Avenue.

Never mind Nigel, it was the malign role of opinion polls that also did for Starmer. And Reform UK’s apparent ascendancy is itself based on endless polls, quite a few by entirely partial sources such as GB News. All those opinion snapshots allow  the BBC to explain their addiction to promoting Farage by saying that he is making the political weather.

Opinion polls are useful when an election is near. Other than that, they tell us little. If we followed all the polls there would be a general election every other month.

Farage bellows that we should be having one now. Yet our parliamentary system allows prime ministers to come and go mid-term. They hop off the train, or are more usually pushed off, and a shiny-faced new conductor jumps on board, and on we go.

It’s not perfect but mostly it works. When the Tories were changing leaders almost every other week, or so it seemed, you didn’t hear a peep from the editor of the Daily Mail about how there should be a general election. Funnily enough, he seems to have changed his mind now.

Incidentally again, this post on Threads from the satirically inclined Sir Michael Take, supposedly ‘the former Conservative MP for Dorset East’, is a neat response to the Mail’s front page below:

Well done The Daily Mail! 👏 Burnham must be held to account for the failures of his regime so far. His removal of VAT from electricity bills has already come far too late & could’ve been done yesterday. If he hasn’t solved the cost of living crisis by Friday then he must go!

Anyway, much of this has been said before, and said too often by me. As Burnham brings us all a bit of Manchester – no bad thing, but then I was raised near that place – let’s leave him to it for now. I wish him well in the knowledge that the only other likely options appear to be a Farage government (increasingly unlikely but possible), a Tory renaissance, or a hatchet-burying marriage of the two.

DID you read about Burnham in a newspaper, glance at the TV news or spot something bob past in the endless flow of social media?

I still buy one copy of the Guardian a week, on a Saturday, followed by The Observer on Sunday. Oh, and the occasional copy of the Yorkshire Post at the weekend.

It’s a dwindling habit, and newspaper readers are getting older. This is illustrated by my in-laws. Now approaching 90, they have two newspapers six days a week, a truly valiant effort.

According to an Ofcom survey of news consumption in 2025, newsprint is said now to account for only five per cent of the 61 minutes a day on average that people spend consuming news.

Two observations follow from that. One, if that’s the case why do broadcasters still show all that day’s front pages. Two, perhaps I should stop looking at the BBC papers review to see what rank slop the Mail or Telegraph are serving up for breakfast. Some habits need shaking.

Picture: theotherkev from pixabay.com

What, I wonder, is the ‘establishment’?

The traditional definition is to be found in Brewer’s Dictionary of Phrase & Fable. There it is said to be ‘a term long used to denote in particular the established Church of England, but now a popular designation for the group or class of people who have authority within a society, particularly Britain…’

Those above you, with influence over you, those higher up the ladder, in other words. Or if you are Nigel Farage, more or less anyone but himself.

This is odd by any reasonable measure, as Farage is an extremely wealthy former public schoolboy and ex-commodities trader, who surrounds himself with other men of similar wealth, some of whom appear to like giving him money.

He is part of what he pretends to disparage.

It is tempting to wonder if this might be traced to his teenage years. Perhaps when he was told off for smoking in his bedroom he ranted that his parents were the establishment. Or perhaps after a teacher at Dulwich College suggested he might drop the racism, he chuntered about the ‘establishment’ having it in for him.

These made-up examples are offered as an exercise in postulation.  For whenever Farage bitches on about the establishment,  his old man’s fag-raddled body seems haunted by the ghost of a petulant boy who will not be criticised.

To him the establishment is a handy proxy for everything a poor soul such as himself has to endure.

Like many right-wing politicians, he cannot exist without an enemy, and the establishment is an amalgam of everything he dislikes moulded into a general foe. A usefully malleable term embracing the BBC, other politicians, the civil service – oh, anything or anyone who has ever been mean about him or his various DIY political parties. The cause of his endless, hissy-fitting grievance.

That Farage is allergic to criticism is suggested by a story that has been doing the rounds for a while. Marina Hyde mentions it in her latest Guardian column. While attending the awards last year for the Spectator, he is said to have reacted ‘to a mild joke by turning white and shouting: ‘Why don’t you go fuck yourself’.”

I wasn’t there, thank heavens, but columnists from the Guardian and the Times were, and they went on the record.

After years of mostly being lionised by the press, indulged as a favourite intolerant old uncle, Farage has recently come under much greater scrutiny, particularly after that astonishingly generous personal gift of £5m from cryptocurrency investor Christopher Harborne.

Once questions started to be asked, as was only proper, Farage snapped at journalists, saying it “was not the public’s business” to know why he was given that money.

And then, with the Parliamentary Standards Committee investigating the matter, Farage resigned his seat at Clacton, saying he would stand again and that the people would be his judge. What he didn’t say is that this would allow him to temporarily dodge what the standards committee has to say.

The other main parties have declined to take part in his cunning stunt, leaving Farage to face the comedian Jonathan David Harvey, who terms himself Count Binface.

This gamble has revealed Farage to have thinner skin than a sausage in an over-heated pan. Gone with a spit and a pop is that friendly man of the people propping up the bar with a pint. A man you might like to have a beer with, some used to say (not me, you’ll be glad to hear, as my swallowing throat would contract in a cold instant).

The mask has fallen away, much as it did for Boris Johnson, another touchy posh man who fabricated a public persona, in his case good old bumbling Boris. That mask hid a snarl, as does the one Farage wears.

But back to Brewer’s. Thinking of who Farage pretends to be brought up the expression ‘hail-fellow-well-met’. Brewer’s defines this as ‘friendly and familiar, often in an unwelcome fashion’. Yup, that sounds about right.

ACCORDING to YouGov, 73% of UK voters dislike Donald Trump. And the same proportion consider Nigel Farage to be sleazy, with even 40% of Reform UK votes seeing him as sleazy. Why, then, does Farage think that being a second-rate Brit Trump tribute act will win him power? And why would anyone vote for him?

I have only questions, no answers.

READY for what passes these days as a run, I scan the new releases on my streaming service. One suggestion is Foreign Tongues, the 25^th album by the Rolling Stones. This follows Hackney Diamonds released three years ago, at the time their first album of original material in 18 years.

First song up as I begin my warm-up walk is Rough And Twisted, a raucous introductory stomp that puts a spring in my leaden step. It’s quite a long album, I’m back before it’s done, but what a surprise. It’s lively, fun, amusing and straightforward – just the usual grizzled old geezers enjoying themselves. Mick Jagger at 82 is in fine voice and sounds genuinely energised.

Keith Richards bashes out those open-G chords that have always powered the Stones, while in a more vulnerable moment lends his gravel tones to Some of Us (“are on our knees”).

All very admirable, but some of us are creaky at the knees and need to sit down and have a cup of tea.

Watching sport on television is a minority interest for me. A game or two of tennis during Wimbledon and a spot of snooker is the most of it; and dipping into football, although as a man without a team, I take no partisan interest in the game.

Cricket I know little about, except that when you attend a match the players are surprisingly far away and easy to mistake (the distant Yorkshire players at Scarborough last summer can be called in evidence).

Something strange has happened to me, though. I’ve watched all the England games in this World Cup, even though I pledged not to thanks to the polluting effects of Donald Trump.

Would you look at that gold-puke stain over there. Trump has just asked Fifa to review the one-match suspension of US striker Folarin Balogun. And Fifa did Trump’s bidding and instead suspended the red card for 12 months.

Then again, Trump cheats at everything – golf, life, politics, marriages – so what do you expect. He also hands out pardons to his favourites like a dodgy old man passing round a sticky tin of sweets.

But the thing is, the USA are playing better than expected, or so those in the know are saying. Now Trump has besmirched that success with his nudge-nudge fix, illustrating once again that everything Trump touches eventually falls apart. As he himself is doing as suggested in the unguarded, makeup-free moment captured above by a Getty photographer.

Uefa called Fifa’s decision on Balogun “unprecedented, incomprehensible and unjustifiable”. Pretty much what the rest of us said when Fifa gave Trump that pretend peace price.

Anyway, football.

The Mexico game was considered to be a tough challenge, again according to those in the know (not me, please excuse any sporting howlers hidden within this blog). The Azteca Stadium was considered to be tough, as was the altitude of Mexico City, as any idling purveyor of punditry with tell you.

The match was scheduled for 1am our time. Sitting in our local bar until dawn didn’t appeal. And neither did staying up at home. Instead, I went to bed at my usual latish hour, got up at 5.45am, made tea, and then watched the match on the BBC iPlayer, having managed to avoid hearing the score.

It was almost like watching in real time. Better, really, as you could whizz through the endless build-up (extended by an hour as kick-off was delayed). You could also speed past whatever it was that Wayne Rooney was trying to say while gargling his vowels.

And you could just watch the game. It was exciting, too. England were on top form and won 3-2. And unlike their other appearances in this World Cup, despair and boredom were kept to a minimum.

What with Wimbledon being on too, I am watching so much sport I’ll have to be careful not to become one of those people who go on about sport all the time. Mind you, I do know a few of those.

FEW of my friends have a kind word for Nigel Farage, the leader of Reform UK. Sadly, his friends in the media have more than made up for that, bigging up Farage at every possibility.

That seems at last to be changing. Assorted newspapers are actually reporting properly on Farage, examining his opaque sources of funding, and asking how come he managed to buy four or five houses.

The Guardian lit the fuse with its story that Farage had been given an undisclosed gift of £5m by the Thai-based crypto tycoon Christopher Harborne. And then lobbied the Bank of England to drop its plans for a crypto Brit coin seemingly in order to help his generous pal.

The latest of these mounting scandals concerns “Posh George” Cottrell, a convicted criminal who has been secretly funding Farage, according to the Sunday Times.

Farage is doing his Trumpian big baby sulk act about all this, chuntering on again that the ‘establishment’ has it in for him.

More, please. Funny, though, that craven Labour MPs wanted to depose Starmer partly because they feared he wasn’t up to fighting Farage and Reform. And now Farage is seemingly imploding even before Starmer has officially departed.

Anyway, I’m off. There’s bound to be some tennis on the television. Oh, look, Britain’s Arthur Fery has just won in a thrilling five-set comeback, if you’ll pardon the sporting lingo.

Incidentally, I expect any moment to hear from Walter Presents on Channel 4. Walter will be wondering where I’ve gone, as normally I am to be found hanging around the bloody touchlines of his foreign crime dramas.

HERE are a few notes posted on the fridge door of my mind. These do not refer to Sir Keir Starmer or his presumed replacement, Andy Burnham, as they were plastered all over here last week.

We can skip the first one as all it says is “Buy beer, bake bread.” Another cautions against drinking wine this early in the week, but that’s been covered with one saying: “My, the Mail is horrid, isn’t it…”

That was occasioned by The Mail on Sunday’s front-page attack on education secretary Bridget Phillipson. Her presumed sin was having grown up in a former council home that years later generated a supposed profit of £90,000 (lower estimates are available).

This allowed a sub-editor to compose the honestly ridiculous headline seen above.

Phillipson was six at the time, but the Mail doesn’t record whether some of her pocket money helped to buy the two-bedroom council house.

Kevin Hollinrake, the Tory chair, blabbers in the report: “Labour have once again been caught red-handed displaying their spiteful class-war hypocrisy.”

Hollinrake’s own wealth comes from selling houses, in case you’ve forgotten. As for that class-war jibe, he is clutching straws of nowt.

Many people benefitted from Margaret Thatcher’s right-to-buy policy/bribe. The hope was that the new owners would gratefully vote Tory for ever more.

A more telling consequence had been the madly overheated housing market we have all these decades later. Oh, and a shortage of council houses spawned by the Tory refusal to reinvest the money in building replacement council houses.

Same thing with privatising water. Only the unforeseen bit here was the creating of massive profits for foreign companies. And lovely flotillas of shit in our rivers and sea. But, hey, free markets rule.

Looking at the next note makes me squirm. It reads, “Piers Morgan is right.” What’s more, he’s right two times over. Firstly for going on the BBC and saying what a disaster Brexit has been, blaming Nigel Farage and David Cameron. And then for saying that the Reform UK leader is doomed as he keeps changing his story on why he accepted a personal gift of five million pounds from that Thai-based crypto king who seems more or less to keep Reform UK afloat.

An illustration on Threads showing the Reflecting Pool under Biden and Trump

Next are a few overlapping notes about Donald Trump. These read – Thinks he’s Atlas. That pool reflects more than he realises. His state fair stinks more than that pool.

Greater sins have been committed by Trump than his hugely expensive renovation of the Lincoln Memorial reflecting pool, but it does stand as a perfect metaphor. It no longer has a reflection as it’s full of algae and the newly applied rubbery blue paint or whatever is coming away beneath – and this bit is priceless – dead ducklings said to have been discovered floating in the non-reflecting water.

Trump, who gave the job to a swimming pool contractor buddy, blames everybody but himself. And he’s had people arrested for reaching into the water to see what’s going on. A fence has now been erected around the non-reflecting pool to deter all those imaginary vandals Trump says have sabotaged the pool.

That state fair was intended to celebrate America’s 250^th anniversary, but assorted announced guests withdrew, and Trump rallied to the cause by, er, making it all in support of himself. And no-one much seems to be attending.

In case you’ve not noticed, the whole world is basically having to be rewired to power AI. And one of the uses of AI is that Donald Trump can put up dodgy images of his America 250 state fair featuring thronging crowds. This is only achievable with AI, as untampered images show an event emptier than a village fair the local vicar forgot to publicise. The AI ones contain endless duplications of what appear to be digitally generated people.

Ten years ago Trump was always whingeing on about “fake news”, in other words news that was insufficiently flattering. Now, thanks to his tech bro brothers in the billionaires’ club, he can broadcast his own fake news, sharing, as we’ve seen, pictures of himself as Jesus. And now as Altas supporting the world on his shoulder pads.

As Trump sits in a pool of his own dissipating flesh and other unmentionables, the images he shares on social media always show a man of strength and undying power. His lights may be dimming, but online he is lit up as if a nuclear reactor has been shoved up his saggy old bottom.

And as people have gleefully been pointing out, in the Greek myth Atlas had to carry the heavens on his shoulders as an eternal punishment for losing a war. Another accidental truth there.

What a time to be alive. Farage appears to be wobbling; his on-off pal Trump is coming apart at the seams.

Oh, and just in case you have forgotten about Tory sleaze, along comes the former Conservative MP Craig Williams. He has just pleaded guilty in court to cheating at gambling. This followed bets he placed on the date of the general election in 2024 (and what a long time ago that now seems).

He admitted  to having used confidential information to bet on the timing of the election. Insider information from a man who is now an outsider, and who, it must be said, looked a sorry sagging sight as he shambled up to court.

I HAVE seen the departure of a few prime ministers, starting in 1990 with Margaret Thatcher, aka Mrs Hacksaw in my old newspaper column.

Major, Blair, Brown, Cameron, May, Johnson, Truss and Sunak followed. Now Sir Keir Starmer is going too. His fall resembles one of those speeded-up films of decay, the solid flesh of majority rotting before your eyes.

That win nearly two years ago turned round Labour’s worst defeat since 1935 – an impressive achievement that soon enough impressed no-one much.

History will wonder where it all went wrong for Sir Keir, and so will I over the next few paragraphs.

Let’s start at the end. Starmer’s farewell speech, delivered with staccato grace, was heartfelt, brief, and a little odd. Then again, Starmer’s decline is itself a little odd.

Exactly why he ended up facing such hostility remains a mystery. He has done nothing wrong and leaves untouched by scandal or corruption; he didn’t crash the economy overnight, like Truss. He was diligent and hard-working, unlike Johnson. He threw himself into the job, at great cost to his family.

In the end, and in simple language, people didn’t seem to like him. Or that was the message put out so often it became its own truth. Unpopular opinion: he deserved better, but it’s too late to worry about that now.

Many on the left and the right wanted Starmer to fail from the off. As did the usual suspect newspapers, determined to swing a wrecking ball at whatever Starmer did, hoping to crack the foundations. Then the broadcasters gave that ball another push, led by the BBC’s frightful political editor, Chris Mason. And a right-wing media agenda was established as fact.

If Andy Burnham does grab the battered crown, he will face the same media hostility. He will also endure huge pressure on social media, where fake news bots zip about like malevolent ping-pong balls. He will also suffer outrageous interference from the American far right, who seem so keen on mucking up our politics.

And he will soon enough be reminded that everybody hates politicians nowadays, a troubling virus for which there is no known vaccination.

Naturally enough, the causes of Starmer’s decline also lie in the man himself. Yes, he made mistakes, from a hasty decision to axe winter fuel payments, to pushing for the poisonous Peter Mandelson to be Britain’s US ambassador.

But it was more than that, different than that. He seemed unwilling or unable to tell a story, to give his politics plot and meaning, to communicate what he stood for. Politics may be a duplicitous art, but you need a good story, a clear narrative to weave.

Once in government, Starmer opted for a steady-as-she goes style, quietly undoing the mess made by his Tory predecessors. He saw himself as a manager politician who had time, two terms were mentioned, to reshape the country.

Sadly, he never truly found a way to connect with voters, to speak in his own voice. He did not wish to play the game, but politics is a sort of game. And politicians, if you’ll permit a generalisation, are sometimes a bunch of divas and drama queens, running about in an egotistical flap, headless chickens to a man and woman.

That applies to all parties, but it certainly applies to Labour MPs at present, so easily led into a chaos that suits their opponents.

Starmer should have taken proper control. Instead he kept his head down. By the time he looked up, the scree beneath his feet was moving, and there was only one way to go.

Will Andy Burnham and his king of the north act really pep up Labour’s chances? There’s an alarming degree of faith being put in what people are calling his Manchesterism, named after his spell as Mayor of Manchester.

Some say Burnham will be better placed to see off Nigel Farage. Maybe, but don’t rest too much faith on that altar. Farage, as any fool could have predicted, is now banging on about having a general election. Risky from a man leading a party that struggles to win byelections.

Yes, Farage needs to be contained. But sometimes the best person to do that is Nigel Farage. For Nigel nearly always undoes whatever it is Nigel is trying to do. He just can’t help hitting that self-destruct button.

REFORM MP Lee Anderson likes to share pictures of his breakfast on social media. Often a full English awash with proper English fat. Fitting for a man who resembles a sausage squeezed into a suit.

Anderson usually goes for the Culture War Full English special to bolster his fatty patriotism.

This raises questions. Does he like a full English because of the name or because it’s basically his party’s manifesto? In future will we all have to post pictures of our fry-ups just to keep our passports? Will my bowl of porridge see me banished?

Whatever, last week Anderston posted a picture of the bread accompanying his bacon. This set him off on one – “Lad behind the counter tried serving it on some fancy artisan sourdough. Proper British white sliced only, mate. None of that hipster nonsense.”

Of the responses Anderson received, many leavened with language, this was perhaps the most satisfying – “Sourdough is very tasty. Lee Anderson is a f****** moron. Both statements are true.”

According to the Cambridge dictionary, a hipster is “someone who is aware of and influenced by the most recent ideas and fashions”.

Whereas Lee Anderson is influenced by a greasy nostalgia that sits like lard on soggy toast. And why did he cite white-sliced bread? Perhaps, er, simply because of its whiteness. His party does seem to be anxious about everything white.

I like the occasional full English as much as the next heart attack survivor who’s been advised not to eat too many. Not being a patriotic dunderhead, I also like a continental breakfast, especially if a good baguette cuddles up with apricot jam and unsalted butter. And if I had a soul, I might well sell it for an almond croissant.

But as a fully indentured bread bore and home baker, I also know that white sliced bread is made with low-quality wheat, assorted additives, too much yeast, all mixed and baked quickly to produce squidgy slices of nothing.

Proper sourdough contains only water, flour and salt. That said, mine doesn’t always work out, so sometimes I add a pinch of yeast. This saves us from loaves you could use to build your own drystone wall.

Sourdough is just an old way of baking, raising bread without industrial yeast. Other techniques include saving a piece of dough from a yeasted loaf and using this to start the next batch, or getting things going with beer that’s live in the bottle.

Anderston could have pointed to other British bread, from split tin loaves to wholemeal, from the cottage loaf to Scottish baps. But no, he went straight for the lowest common denominator in the bread aisle.

If that last sentence sounds snobby, I’ll put up a floury hand by way of apology. Yes, white sliced bread will feed the family and that’s an important consideration, even if supermarkets sell it at unrealistically low prices.

If you can stretch to anything better, go to a local bakery. York is full of them, from the Haxby Bakehouse to Bluebird Bakery to CS Sourdough to the Black Wheat Club. All will sell you a fine sourdough loaf. Or something else good, and their shelves wobble with pastries and buns and other flaky delights.

Such bakeries can be found around the country, whether run by ‘hipsters’ or just by people who devote themselves to making the best bread possible. Britain today can be proud of its bread. You can even buy decent enough sourdough at the supermarket (alongside some horror story faux-dough loaves).

Good sourdough bread is made slowly and with care; it tastes lovely and is better for your digestive system than those gluey slices of processed bread wrapped in plastic.

If the pushing of white slice bread is mostly down to supermarkets, then Lee Anderson himself is the product a of a three-for-one deal at the politics supermarket. He’s gone from Labour to Conservative to Reform, all without adding anything healthy to his plate.

Footnote: white sliced bread is almost certainly not served at the long posh lunches Lee’s boss Nigel enjoys.

Emily Roots in her bakery (Picture Cornwall Live)

HERE’S another bread story, thankfully free of politics, that caught my eye. It appeared on the Cornwall Live website, complete with obligatory pun in the headline – “Mum knead-deep in homemade bread after Facebook post went bonkers.”

Emily Roots put out a light-hearted social media post in January 2024 when she was seven-months-pregnant. She said she was going to sell homemade loaves from the window of her Cornish cottage, even though she’d never baked a loaf in her life.

Locals in the small village of Tywardreath, near St Austell, were so keen on the idea, that the panic-stricken 31-year-old had to give herself a crash course in breadmaking.

Before long, hordes of locals bought loaves from an unassuming table covered by a gingham cloth. And now Emma runs the Village Bakery, and her loaves are found at the Eden Project.

“I’d never done sourdough and I was kind of intimidated by it, so I started with focaccia and the village went crazy for it. There were queues down the street,” Emma told Cornwall Live.

Just a word of warning, Emma. If you see a sleazy bloke in a bulging suit wanting bread for a fry-up, point him to the nearest supermarket.

Former prime minister Tony Blair (ITV News)

This is your pilot speaking. We are finishing our descent and will soon be landing at Manchester. While you’ve been away, all the usual shit has been going on.

You’ve not missed anything uplifting. Tony Blair has been doing his eerie messiah act, rattling his chains as the Ghost of Politics Past, while criticising Sir Keir Starmer and Labour, thus giving succour to the party’s critics.

Apparently, Blair wrote a 5,600-word essay for his own Institute for Global Change. I’ve not read it as I’m too busy flying this plane. You can come up with your own excuse, such as preferring to have a tooth extracted or something.

Anyway, Blair thinks Starmer should be sticking closer to the US and Donald Trump and made a mistake by not joining in with his Iran war. Be more like me, says the man nobody wants to listen to anymore.

And, yes, he said all that even as Trump rants and unravels before our bloodshot eyes, a sad sack of past sins. All while perverting politics to make himself ever richer. What a guy, Tony!

Heaving close to Trump gets you nowhere. Starmer went all out and still ended up being mocked. Flattery only insulates you for a while. Anyone too close to Trump eventually pays a heavy price . So good on Starmer for side-stepping the ill-fated Iran war.

Blair now exists in a weird bubble of the super-rich, carrying on like a priest who once found untold millions left in his collection plate.

The former prime minister also thinks we need to be doing more to develop AI. But he would say that as he receives enormous funding from, among others, Larry Ellison, AI evangelist, Trump backer, and third richest man in the world.

Will AI be our saviour? Everyone and his old dog wants to bet the house on it while knowing nothing much about how it will work – other than that it’s mostly in the hands of US tech bros who want to rule the world and almost do already.

One disreputable use of AI can be seen in all those pathetic self-glorying memes Trump shares night after night, portraying himself as a strongman, a superhero, Jesus and other mad images.

And social media is awash with AI slop. Fake news stories designed to undermine democracy and make us lose trust in everyone and everything.

Before the tyres bump onto the runway, and before you have to walk about two miles through the airport to find your car and then navigate all the midnight roadworks and a maze of sudden lane closures, there is just time to look out of the window.

Well done that pub. Picture from Threads

There you will see Reform leader Nigel Farage in a sulk about not having been invited onto Desert Islands Discs on Radio 4. The Mail says the Reform leader has been “banned” from appearing on the programme. According to the BBC, he hasn’t. Take your pick. It’s the BBC’s programme so it’s up to them who they invite.

One solution might be to ban all politicians and choose more interesting people. Sadly, it’s a bit late for that as assorted politicians have already gummed up the show, including Boris Johnson, Gordon Brown, Margaret Thatcher, Ed Miliband, Nick Clegg and Theresa May. More recently, Tory leader Kemi Badenoch appeared. What an impossible listen that was.

If Nigel Farage did wheedle his way onto that desert island, his luxury would be a bottomless bag of grievance. And his favourite piece of music would be a self-pitying whine sung to one note.

Oh, look, there he goes, stepping from his man-of-the-people private jet and into his working-class-hero limousine, surrounded by his common-touch security guys and expensive lawyers hired to preserve his everyday credentials, and to keep a lid on things he’d prefer you didn’t see or notice.

I hope you enjoyed your flight. Now you’re heading home and to a head full of all the usual sad nonsense about politics. It must be time for another holiday.

When Sir Keir Starmer won his impressive landslide victory, certain commentators took one look and started tutting like a builder called to inspect a hastily erected wall. ‘Nice and high,’ they said. ‘But who dug those foundations? It won’t last. Two sugars, please. And a Jammy Dodger for my friend Nigel.’

Those early purveyors of doom will be rubbing their hands after Labour’s disappointing showing at the local elections.

Before trudging through the troughs, let’s recall The League of Gentlemen, where a ‘local shop for local people’ was run by a woman called Tubbs, who fended off strangers wishing to make a purchase on the grounds that they were not local.

Local elections should be where local people vote on local issues. Reform UK, awash with money from Christopher Harborne, the biggest donor in British political history, took out front-page newspaper ads on election day declaring: “Vote Reform. Get Starmer Out.”

Whether those adverts made a difference would be hard to prove, but they do remind us that Reform UK is an opportunistic wiggler through loopholes. Did many Reform voters actually think their local vote might push Starmer out? Hard to say, but surely some did.

Incidentally, the diminished Observer rose in my estimation last Sunday for a front page about Harborne under the headline: “The man who bought Britain.”

More of that, please. And more investigations into the five million pounds Harborne gave Farage as a seemingly dodgy personal gift (as discussed in the previous MOL).

This morning Starmer gave another of his reset speeches. It was one of his best speeches. But will it make any difference? It’s an unpopular opinion, but I think Labour would be mad to depose Starmer. It would lead to instability for the country – and wouldn’t improve the chances of whoever Labour chose to succeed him.

On some levels, Starmer’s unpopularity seems unreasonable. Is he really worse than Boris Johnson, Theresa May or Liz Truss? He’s not an inspirational politician, it’s true – but is he that awful?

If he is forced out, Labour will look as hopelessly self-serving and panicky as the Tories were when they foisted three prime ministers on us in one year (a three-for-one offer no-one was queuing up to buy).

On the quiet much about life in Britain is improving as the damage done by the Tories is slowly repaired. Are we now such an unreasonable, ungovernable country that we have a massive sulk if everything isn’t perfect in less that two years? Perhaps we are.

This led me to thinking about stories and narratives. Politics is partly about having a story to tell and to sell. Some politicians are better at this than others.

Nigel Farage is a master storyteller, even if the tales he tells are full of lies, exaggerations, thinly disguised racism, blatant self-aggrandisement and impossible promises written on the back of a cigarette packet. His stories are not gripping yarns so much as griping yarns filled with hatred, spite and negativity (incapable as he is of saying anything nice about anyone, other than Donald Trump).

Starmer hardly ever tells a story, apart from the one about his father being a toolmaker. Without a story, or seemingly a coherent philosophy, he struggles to inspire voters. This was apparent soon after he was elected. Instead of brandishing his impressive majority, he tutted along and said, ‘Yes, the foundations do look questionable.’

That majority should have made him confident and full of political vim. He should have taken Reform UK on instead of trying to copy them; he should have been more ecological to deflect the reborn Greens. Instead he turned managerial and cautious.

Talking of storytelling, the media are demon writers of the Westminster soap opera. They workshopped this plotline ages ago, endlessly saying that the local elections were the latest or possibly last cliffhanger for Starmer. Did such coverage affect how people voted? A better storyteller than Starmer might have headed off those pesky scriptwriters. I’d like to think he still could, but I’m not putting money on it.

Despite all the pro-Reform coverage, Nigel Farage’s limited company (it’s not really a political party at all) now has about 5% of the country’s councillors, with Labour having 31%. Thanks to Alex Perkins, former Lib-Dem leader of Canterbury City Council, for the figures and pie chart, taken from Threads.

Yes, Reform has upended the old politics, but will the unbearable cockiness of Nigel Farage really take him to Downing Street? With all my old heart I hope not.

NIGEL Farage famously gets off scot-free. He is bowled soft questions and allowed to spout hate and division. He’s rude and sneery. And blows his top quicker than a dodgy fire hydrant if he is challenged.

I never said that he will say – even as footage is unearthed of him saying exactly whatever it was he didn’t say.

Mostly an interviewer will just hand the media broom onto the next journalist for the sweeping away of inconvenient dirt. Without asking Farage why he is being bankrolled by reclusive Thai-based crypto billionaire Christopher Harborne, who gave his party £9m in August last year. And, as just reported, a ‘gift’ of £5m before the last election.

Never mind, he’s our next prime minister, the leader columns in the usual suspect newspapers will later opine (a stuffy old word favoured by leader writers, an odd breed).

If one-tenth of the time and energy devoted to attacking Sir Keir Starmer were to be spent truly examining Reform UK, how revealing that might be. Incidentally, and this is for another day, anyone who may replace Starmer will face exactly the same concerted and undiluted campaign of media hostility.

Anyway, here is an interview you won’t have seen or read, as it was made up by the writer of this blog…

Woman interview: Hello, Mr Farage. Welcome to the show.

Farage (trying to look interested while glancing at his watch): It’s my pleasure.

Interviewer: I’d like to start by asking why you did not reveal that you were given £5m by the crypto billionaire Christpher Harborne shortly before the general election in 2024.

Farage: Nobody’s business but mine. Next question.

Interviewer: You’ve not answered this one yet. At the time you said you were not interested in standing in the election or in staying in politics. Then you suddenly changed your mind after a very wealthy man gave you £5m.

Farage: It was to help with my security.

Interviewer: Was that because someone once threw a milkshake at you? Clearly guarding against airborne milkshakes must cost an awful lot of money.

Farage: Nice try, dearie. But you are just being flippant.

Interviewer: With respect, I am not. The public needs to know how much money you receive from donors. And, incidentally, £5m pounds is almost ten times as much as the average person in the UK will earn in a lifetime, according to the Office of National Statistics.

Farage: Well, more fool them. It’s a free market out there.

Interviewer: What, there’s a free market in people being given five million quid by rich men for no apparent reason?

Farage: Your questions are very tedious. I don’t have to sit here. I’m a busy man.

Interviewer: Busy promoting yourself, one might say. What qualities do you possess that are necessary in a prime minister? You’ve barely been an MP for ten minutes and you spend more time in the air than in your constituency. You’ve never been near a government ministry. Isn’t that unusual?

Farage: Far too busy for anything like that, dearie.

Interviewer: What, busy making a bothersome tit of yourself, first in the European Parliament, and more recently at Westminster, where you flounce out in during PMQs or organise a mini-sulk with your party’s MPs? And busy sucking up to extreme right-wingers in the US?

Farage (fidgeting with the microphone attached to the pinstriped lapel of his jacket): I don’t have to suffer your impertinence. Is it your time of the month or something, luvvie?

Interviewer: Now you’re being personal. But you still haven’t explained to me what are your qualities for being prime minister?

Farage (shrugging): Rich men like to give me money. And money makes the world go round. We need more rich people in this country.

Interviewer: Most people in this country are not rich. What are you going to do for them?

Farage: Fill a few potholes, run flags up lampposts, stop all this green nonsense, drill and frack until the last drops of oil have been sucked out of the earth, leave our children to sort out the mess. Stop wasting money on the NHS, prevent all those foreigners from coming here.

Interviewer: So all the usual grievance, hate, division and negativity, then.

Farage: Why change a winning formula.

Interviewer: One reason Britain faces so many problems is that your Brexit has been a disaster and is estimated to have cost the country between £180-£240 billion in lost revenue. Why should we believe a word you say?

Farage: Not my Brexit – it was Boris Johnson’s, and he didn’t do it properly. But Brexit did give us back our sovereignty.

Interviewer: Never quite sure what sovereignty means. Can you spend it down the shops? Now let’s move to the NHS. You have been very hostile about the NHS and suggested that we should have an American-style insurance system – yet in the US people sometimes have to sell their homes to pay their medical bills. Is that what you want for Britain?

Farage: The NHS under me will remain free at the point of delivery.

Interviewer: So it won’t cost you anything to enter hospital – you’ll just get a whopping bill as you leave. Is that what free at the point of delivery means?

Farage (exposing his Union Jack-covered ankles as he stands, while hoicking up his mustard-coloured corduroy trousers): I don’t have time for your woke whinging. I’ve gone a plane to catch.

Interviewer: Did you pay for your own ticket?

Farage: None of your business.

Interviewer: Don’t go yet. I want to know why you are up to your knees in money from oil, why you hate the planet so much, who exactly paid for your £850,000 home in Clacton, why the former leader of Reform UK in Wales was sentenced to ten years in prison after admitting taking bribes for pro-Russia interviews and speeches, why you keep making up stories about how awful life is in London, and why you won’t congratulate Labour for cutting down small boat crossings, why you are fighting the local elections on national issues, and why your party is now filling up with ex-Tories?

Nigel Farage storms out in the company of his elite crew of milkshake repelling bodyguards. The interviewer offers a wan smile to the camera.

“I guess we’ll never know,” she says. “Oh, damn. I forgot to ask him if Reform UK should really be called the I’m-Not-A-Racist-But party. Trouble is, most of them are.”

Time can make you swallow words once spoken with confidence.

I stuck up for the BBC as pro-Corbyn types complained the corporation had it in for their man Jeremy. All Labour leaders have a tough time in the media, I used to point out, annoyingly.

Still, that was true then and remains so today. Now Sir Keir Starmer is the one constantly berated by the newspapers and the TV news.

Perhaps unfashionably, I believe Starmer deserves a fairer hearing than he gets. No one at the BBC appears to share that belief. Almost all news about Starmer is framed negatively. While weaselly political editor Chris Mason insists on buttering up Nigel Farage. Sizzling him in more butter than to be found in a Lurpak TV advert.

Whatever you think of Starmer, and not liking or trusting him is perfectly fine if that’s your honest belief, surely only a deluded fool thinks Farage would make a better prime minister.

Farage has never done anything useful in politics; he hasn’t worked hard – or at all – as an MP to represent his constituents or to argue for change through debate. All he ever does is shout in the hope voters will mistake noise for nous. More fool them if they do.

Like his pal Trump, Farage appears to see politics as a self-enrichment scheme (‘Farage earns more than £1m a year for non-MP work’ – a rare BBC headline that came without the blandishment).

The Guardian has been my newspaper of choice for decades, especially on Saturday. How trying then to find it seems to have joined the Bash Starmer Street Kids of the Mail and the Telegraph, who have campaigned against him from day one.

Last Saturday’s edition was filled with Starmer’s difficulties over the fallout from his admittedly foolish appointment of Peter Mandelson as US ambassador.

A column by the usually interesting Jonathan Freeland trundled out the standard anti-Starmer message, while an accompanying leader column could have been put in the Daily Mail with hardly a changed word. Even John Crace, saint of snark and my favourite political writer, has been at it.

Yet on Threads, my feed is full of people who support Starmer, especially over his refusal to join Trump’s misguided and illegal war against Iran. Many are also disgruntled with the Guardian.

Picture: From Jack Dart on Facebook

Yes, choosing Mandelson was a rotten idea. Yet all sorts congratulated Starmer at the time, not least Farage, the hypocrite’s hypocrite. He backed the appointment, calling Mandelson a “very intelligent man” and an “enormously talented bloke”, and offered to work with him on a Trump trade deal.

As soon as it all backfired, Farage whistled another tune. Probably one from the Great American Far-Right Songbook.

And yet in the photograph above, Farage is seen being matey with Mandelson – suggesting that politics is a closed world, filled with play-acting charlatans who chummy up to their enemies.

Will Mandelson be the end of SKS? I hope not as his government is achieving much good. Unemployment is down, the economy is growing, NHS waiting lists are down and 450,000 children have been lifted out of poverty (Farage would shove them back there). Oh, and Starmer has just promised to break the link between energy bills and the price of gas, surely a good move.

The Mandelson saga is one of those Westminster plotlines, obsessed over by key players in the soap, yet of little interest to most ordinary voters. But maybe I will have to swallow those words, too.

I AM in Knutsford for the day, taking my 94-year-old mother out for lunch. It is warm enough to sit outside. ‘Are you growing a beard?’ she asks, peering over the table through darkened lens.

‘It was your idea,’ I say.

She thought my sons looked good with beards and suggested I give it a try. So I did.

I remind her of this, and she says the beard looks good. Perhaps only a mother could say that. It is not exactly hirsute and might be taken by a passing wind or a sharp tongue.

At my boys grammar school in times of ancient history, one bearded teacher advised shaving the neck each week, something I now do. A younger teacher grew a beard to compensate for his departing hair. I recall quipping to a friend that he was making up below for what had gone up top. What a wit I was.

Some years later, my hair went the same way. And many more years on, I am attempting that upside down trick with a modest beard. A little like this blog, it is there but not everyone notices.

ON the return journey, traffic is awful. The M60 round Stockport is a semi-permanent traffic jam, as usual. Everything eases off on the M62 but soon signs warn the motorway is closed at junction 29 (the one for Leeds and York).

Google maps suggests joining a different traffic jam. Travelling alone, I am free to swear, which I do. It doesn’t improve my mood. Later I find out that a number of cars had crashed on the M62, some bursting into flames. The motorway remains shut for 12 hours and I feel guilty about the swearing.