Digested week: Is it pedantic to point out Trump is ‘ending’ a war he started? | John Crace
Monday
I was at Checkers for Donald Trump and Keir Starmer’s joint press conference last September, and I remember my jaw dropping when the US president announced that he had personally ended eight global conflicts. Trump followed this by claiming that one of the wars he ended was between Azerbaijan and Albania. My eyes flickered to Starmer, who nodded as if to say, “Yes. He did that.” Either the war between Azerbaijan and Albania is the most underreported war in modern history, or it is pure fiction. Just as Trump later claimed that he had never met Peter Mandelson, footage of him joking with the Prince of Darkness in the Oval Office a few days later appeared in many news outlets. Keir did not even move a finger about this. But perhaps I’m being pedantic, because the US president now appears to be preparing to end a war that is actually ongoing. It would certainly be a bit rude to point out that the war he ended was the war he started.
I hope the Nobel committee doesn’t use this against Trump this year and give him the peace prize he so richly deserves. Although the end of the war between the US and Iran seems to depend on how you define the word “end”. If declaring that you have won a stalemated war is a means to an end, perhaps we are only halfway there. If the US and Iran launching missile attacks shortly after Trump announced an imminent peace agreement is also progress, then we should embrace it with open arms. Maybe attacking each other is both parties’ way of showing love. They enjoy make-up sex after the lovers’ tiff. As is often the case with Trump, there is a suspension of reality.
Tuesday
Peter Murrell may have pleaded guilty to embezzling more than £400,000 from SNP coffers, but further questions remain. How come no one in the SNP was unduly disturbed about donations disappearing and accounting discrepancies? How come voters didn’t care that the SNP’s finances were a bit iffy at the last election? It was pretty clear that Murrell had a lot of explaining to do since his initial arrest. Surely someone must have thought that if the SNP can’t be trusted with its own money, how can it be trusted with the country’s money? It’s as if the SNP is run as a cult where all behavior is excused. And that’s before we get to Murrell’s ex-wife Nicola Sturgeon. Sturgeon has always insisted she had no idea her husband was committing fraud on an industrial scale. So it can be concluded that the SNP’s former leader – the woman ultimately responsible for signing off on the accounts – is breathtakingly stupid. Or at least lacks curiosity.
Instead, we’re expected to believe that he thinks he’s putting money aside for a rainy day. He had a habit of grinding salt and pepper. In 2019 he came home with Peugeot Saveur mills worth £526. The following year he switched to Lalique glass grinders, which cost just £2,618. A bargain. Nicola thought she was just living her dream. Who doesn’t want their partner to screw themselves up? Especially if she’s wearing the Slouch Pouch Onesie. This only cost £75. But it’s still too much for Peter to spend his own money. Must have been a pretty understanding marriage arrangement. A place where neither Nicola nor Peter asks questions. Now I must admit, I have managed to sneak a few book purchases into the house without my wife knowing, but never anything on the scale of Murrell. He openly concealed his crimes. If I suddenly bought a large Hans Coper flower pot or announced that I had bought a new holiday home, my wife’s first reaction would be: “How beautiful, my dear.” It would be: “Where did you get the money?” and “Why didn’t you consult me first?”
Wednesday
Carla Denyer, the Green MP for Bristol Central, posted a letter to all her constituents on social media late last week saying she would be taking time off work because she was experiencing burnout. While most people were understanding, within hours the online harassment began. Some of this comes from political journalists who you think should know better. What did Carla mean by being exhausted? What did it burn from? I’m sitting in the House of Commons not doing much. Being a member of parliament wasn’t even a proper job. Not like doctors and nurses. He even had staff to handle constituency affairs so no one would notice he was gone. My sympathy was entirely with Carla.
I’ve been there many times and it’s a nightmare. At least because it’s slowly getting to you. It begins with a vague feeling of anxiety. I wake up in the morning and can’t bring myself to get out of bed. Then I get out of bed because I’m running late and slowly the day kicks into gear. Everything feels a little better. OK for work. I go to bed hoping the next day will be better. But it is not like that. A little worse. And this continues until we are almost on the verge of collapse. Sometimes after a month or two everything falls into place. The medications begin to work and my support network of psychiatrists, therapists, friends and colleagues kick in and life slowly becomes bearable again. I had two months like this earlier this year. Somehow I found my way. Other times I needed to take some time off from work. I was twice admitted to a psychiatric hospital for anxiety and depression. And I realize it could happen again at some point. I never take my mental health for granted. None of us should dare tell Carla how she should do her job. Sometimes the bravest thing is not to continue. It’s knowing when you’re full.
Thursday
There was a very moving moment towards the end of the three-part Tony Blair documentary broadcast on Channel 4 at the beginning of the year. This wasn’t about his parents. This wasn’t about her relationship with Gordon Brown. It wasn’t even about weapons of mass destruction and the war with Iraq. This is when the interviewer asked if he had considered therapy. For the first time, Blair looked truly strange; It’s like he’s revealed a part of himself that he’d rather keep hidden. “No,” he said uneasily. He had never considered therapy. He had never felt that there was anything to be gained from looking back. He preferred to look forward and take action. This explained more than the previous two and a half hour movie. Because there was no way Tony didn’t want to look back. It was because he couldn’t allow himself to do it. He couldn’t stand the idea of being held personally responsible for what he had done. He couldn’t come close to the burden he might have been operating out of arrogance, a desire to appear powerful, and ego. All human emotions except those that mean he must accept responsibility for the needless deaths of hundreds of thousands of people. This was too much for Tony. Not even his religion could save him from this level of introspection. The only way he could survive was to constantly tell himself that he always had the best possible motivation for everything he did. In his own mind he was a savior. There was nothing to apologize for. The same was almost certainly true when Blair published his criticism of Labor this week. He thought he was doing a favor to the party and the country. He thought what he had to say was really important. That his truths are absolute truths. But as before, he was blind to his own motivations. What really made him tick? Desire to be remembered. To forever remain the only Labor prime minister to win three elections. That his intervention was not well-intentioned. It was about making life as difficult as possible for Keir Starmer and Andy Burnham. If he really wanted to help, he could call them privately. The most important was writing a manifesto for the Conservative Party. Let’s see if Kemi Badenoch embraces this.
Friday
I had to miss Spurs’ last game of the season as I was driving to stay with friends at the Hay festival, where I had an event the next day. I listened to the Everton match in the car on the way up. An experience that I recommend none of you repeat. It was much, much worse than being at the game in person. The images I created in my head from the commentator’s voice were more horrifying than anything I had ever witnessed in a live match. Only white noise and my imagination to keep me company for the better part of two hours. Still, Tottenham got the job done. Only. Although it is a typical white joint ride. The illusion of competence. The ball that crossed the goal line by inches to win the game. Then the usual last 30 minutes of panic stations where each player struggles to remember that they are professional footballers. It was strange to find myself almost crying with joy when the final whistle blew as we finished 17th for the second year in a row. This time last year I remember thinking things could be better and look where that got me. But third time lucky. Maybe we can aim to finish 16th next season. This would at least be a concrete development. That’s not exactly why I paid a small fortune for my season ticket, though. I renewed it on Monday, having reconciled myself to the fact that the club had no intention of cutting prices while we clung to the Premier League by our fingertips. Since the Everton match, the club’s non-executive chairman Peter Charrington has written what could be considered an apology letter to fans. But it turns out that Pistol Pete isn’t really sorry about anything. Instead, he says the Spurs leadership team had everything under control last year. Forgive me for not noticing. Still, maybe it’s time to relax and enjoy football, which I don’t really care about. World Cup. It starts on June 11. So with perfect timing, I’m doing a show at the Leicester Square theater in London the day before. You come too. It’s your last chance to avoid football madness until May next year.
