The global elite and me

Here come the global elites. They love it here. Their spiritual second home. The heat, the rosé, the food, the service, the quaint and deserted villages. One way and another I get to meet some of them. Catriona manages holiday villas and those renters she likes she asks up to our place for a drink.

The day Boris resigned a couple of these elite social-equity fanatics floated up to the house speechless with ecstasy. Post-Trump, Boris was their Satan, prince of lies. Now he’d resigned. Or as good as, if princes of lies can ever be believed. One last heave and they’d done it. Got the bastard out.

Thankfully, a former deputy chief whip had got falling-down drunk and touched someone’s bottom in the Carlton Club. Someone had complained to someone else. Doubtless a raving bottom man himself, Boris was slow to censure. Conservative MPs resigned in droves. We saw the letters that they wrote published in the newspaper.

The true test of artificial intelligence, said Alan Turing, lies in whether humans can distinguish a robot from a human. These resignation letters signalled that the country was being run by unsophisticated early prototypes, but robots nevertheless. And someone enjoying a fantastic work-life balance in Silicon Valley had pressed the master default mass-resignation-letter switch. Now four of these triumphs of artificial intelligence are being paraded in front of us like the Google stand at an AI trade fair and we must pick one of them to replace the human, all-too-human Boris.

Did anyone else note how effortlessly Boris strode the world stage at that G7 meeting in Germany? Dominated it? Made them all heartily laugh as this lovable, potentially great Englishman took his seat at the table and suggested they took off all their clothes? Even President Macron was laughed into awe, forgiveness and relief at the ebullient form of Europe’s torpedo number one.