Letter from Plague Island, February 2026
Dear friends,
We began the month in a manner that can only be described as faintly ridiculous.
Picture, if you will, the manic theatricality of Balthazar Bratt in Despicable Me 3, only instead of shoulder pads and synthesisers, there was a Substack bot and a sudden, slightly surreal suspension for posting too much.
Too much.
It assumed we were automated. One might almost take it as a compliment. At the time, however, it didn’t feel amusing. It felt like a small doomsday scenario. We couldn’t log in, couldn’t post, and — most importantly — couldn’t reach you. With so much happening in the world, being locked out of our own publication felt like being gagged mid-sentence. Thankfully, sanity prevailed, and we’re back up and running.
To our paid subscribers in particular, we want to say: we’re sorry for the inconvenience. We know you support this work in good faith, and we take that seriously. If we ever have to move platforms in the future (hopefully we won’t) we will honour every subscription and ensure continuity of service.
Anyway. On to the news…
If American politics resembles a slow-motion car crash, UK politics increasingly resembles a swamp in high summer: thick, fetid, and humming with things better left unexamined.
