Late last year, Stranger Things finally ended. Thank the gods. I spent the fourth season waiting for Hopper to complete his nonsensical transformation into Rambo, and wondering when every characters' inevitable PTSD would finally kick in. Why do we get so invested in certain stories that we persevere long after they've become ridiculous?
It can't be that some stories start so masterfully that we're simply compelled to finish them. Lost, for example, started every bit as well as Stranger Things, but many of us switched off halfway through season two (because, if you're going to have polar bears on a tropical island, you have a finite number of episodes in which to f*ing-well explain yourself).
It's the same with books. Take Jane Eyre, an absolutely brilliant first half, but a back nine so dull that Mr. Rochester's preoccupation with his own forehead is a recurrent plot point. Yet, I'll wager anyone who started the novel forced their way through it. Why? I've lost count of how many half-read books there are languishing on my shelves, what's so special about Jane Eyre? Why do some stories seem to share the fundamental property of a successful marriage — no matter how tedious they become, you keep turning the pages like a zombified captive? (My wife doesn't read my writing).
How on Earth have news cycles tapped into this zombification phenomenon? We could change channels, or stop looking at our phones, or read another book instead of a newspaper, but we won't. Current affairs stories are all too juicy and sweet — and nauseating, anxiety-inducing, unfulfilling, repetitive, dull, infuriating, and so on. We're hooked. Why?
I can understand how pictures of no-longer-a-prince Andrew on all fours might set tongues wagging. And I appreciate that some people want to vicariously enjoy the melodrama of a Beckham family wedding. Likewise, wars and disasters have a passively sadistic appeal that taps into some dank recess of the human psyche — "Oh, look at all those bad things happening to people who are definitely not us." But how have the minutia of politicians' lives become such compelling info-tainment?
Boris Johnson, for instance, was brought down by the Party-Gate scandal. He'd allowed his staff to hold — and partaken in — parties at Downing Street while the country was under covid restrictions. It was annoying and insensitive and hypocritical, but I only say "parties" in the most technical sense because these were actually sparsely attended afterwork drinks. In any case, they were a stupid reason to kick him out of office, particularly since he'd offered so many real reasons, some of which, in my view, warrant criminal investigation.
Before that, Matt Hancock was caught having an affair with a staff member (snooze... it happens). Recently, Angela Rayner fell foul of having messed up her tax arrangements (who hasn't? My accountant thinks I'm either an imbecile, or addicted to paying fines). Keir Starmer was once even attacked, quite viciously, by the right-wing press over a beer and a curry. Although, since he couldn't have made a front page without dancing naked in front of Buckingham Palace at the time, he probably appreciated the publicity. He's the Prime Minister now. Or, rather, for now.
An inevitable scandal has come to light. Starmer chose a big beast of British politics, Lord Peter Mandelson as the US ambassador. For the unaware, Mandelson is the kind of guy who could — and may well have, or will — convince the Devil to rewrite a Faustian contract. He's not someone you want around for long, but we were pretty desperate for a trade deal, so it was a case of more Peter, fewer questions. The thing is, The Dark Lord Mandelson works by, and gets in trouble for, pulling the strings nobody else dares touch. And since money talks, and since Jeffery Epstein once financed — and seemingly recorded dirt on — the global power elites, you'll never guess who one of those strings used to be.
Substantial evidence is coming to light on the relationship between the two men. It seems to have been close, continued past Epstein's conviction, and involved a meaningful amount of trading in favours and information, including sensitive government information. And much of this, it now seems, was either known or suspected in Westminster a long time ago. That Keir Starmer appointed Mandelson to any kind of office, when it was obvious that the Epstein files would be released, is a staggering error of judgement. And effectively fatal. The British Prime Minister has fallen in all but position.
Just think about this for a moment — we've had six prime ministers since the Brexit referendum, ten years ago, and they've all become lame ducks. Only Rishi Sunak was allowed to limp on until the scheduled general election deadline, and only because nobody else in his party wanted the job. Starmer lacks that advantage. At least two successors have not-so-quietly announced themselves, so he may well resign in the coming weeks. If not, he'll be gone soon after the local elections in May because his party is almost certain to get thrashed. It's all beyond tedious.
Yet, I've checked the BBC website at least 64,387 times in the past few days.
Yours,
A. Zombie.
