I SUSPECT that Kemi Badenoch, the new leader of the Conservative Party, is going to be one of those Tory titans known by just one name.
Maggie, Boris — and now Kemi.
But the mountain Kemi must climb is higher and harder than the summits scaled by Thatcher and BoJo.
Boris had the open goal of facing Jeremy Corbyn at the 2019 General Election.
When Thatcher won her first General Election in the spring of 1979, Labour’s Winter of Discontent was still vivid in the national consciousness.
But Kemi has years to go before a General Election. And she inherits a party that just endured a historic thrashing.
Kemi must decide what kind of party she is going to lead.
Are the Tories under Kemi going to attempt to be more Farage than Nigel himself to win back all those Reform UK defectors?
Or will they once more be the kind of broad church that can give a comfy pew to both David Cameron and Jacob Rees-Mogg?
The good news is that, like Maggie — and unlike BoJo — Kemi is a politician of convictions.
She will need them. Her party faces an existential crisis.
Reform hoovered up four million votes at the General Election. The Tories also lost support to Labour, the Lib Dems and the sofa.
After 14 years of power and multiple Tory PMs, not all of them elected, apathy presents a greater threat to the Tory vote than anything.
Yet Kemi’s election proves the Tories are infinitely more comfortable with modern Britain than Labour.
Olukemi Olufunto Adegoke Badenoch is the fourth female Tory leader.
She was born in Wimbledon of Nigerian parents but grew up in Lagos and has the kind of British patriotism that comes from knowing what much of the world is really like.
Her gender and race do not matter in this country. You suspect they would matter deeply in any other European nation — or indeed in the Labour Party.
And here is the good news for Kemi. This is a conservative — small “c” — country.
Our instincts are fundamentally conservative — hard work rewarded, communities respected, families protected. A quiet patriotism in our country. A deep pride in our past.
Labour sees all private wealth, no matter how modest, as a big, fat nipple that they can suck on
Tony Parsons
Presented with the chance to elect a genuinely radical Prime Minister — Jeremy Corbyn — the British people ran a mile. And they would have run a mile from Keir Starmer if he had the honesty to admit that his party is nothing like New Labour.
Labour lied, presenting themselves as moderates when their loathing of aspiration is closer to Corbyn than Blair.
Growth? Don’t make me chortle mirthlessly. After that nakedly socialist Budget, there’s as much chance of long-term economic growth as there is of Starmer paying for his own Taylor Swift tickets.
The comrades despise all the striving human instincts that, in the end, create all of our prosperity and pays for everything.
Labour sees all private wealth, no matter how modest, as a big, fat nipple that they can suck on greedily until it is bone dry.
However, their wounds still sting from that kicking at the General Election, and the country is crying out for an alternative to the dead weight of socialism.
Starmer, Reeves, Labour’s politics of envy — THAT IS NOT WHO WE ARE.
Go get ’em, Kemi.
EMILY RATAJKOWSKI proved that print is not dead on the red carpet at the WSJ Magazine Innovator Awards, with a stunning dress that blurred no lines.
Apparently, the words on Emily’s frock are taken from Clive Bell’s 1914 book, Art.
Now that’s what you call a text symbol.
IT feels like we can’t get enough live music.
The Rolling Stones sold 848,000 tickets for their 15 shows across America, earning £181million for those sprightly eighty-somethings, Mick and Keith. It is the most lucrative Stones tour of all time.
And why were 20million people chasing one million tickets to see Oasis?
Oasis were a beloved band, deeply mourned and missed. But that does not really explain it. My guess is that it is some post-pandemic craving for a mass gathering.
And because we don’t buy recorded music like we did in the past, we yearn to hear those greatest hits live.
So if a star wants to finance their divorce settlements, they have to get out on the road.
I am going to see an irascible 83-year-old at the Royal Albert Hall next week, even though the miserable old git has decreed that the audience are not allowed to bring their phones to the venue, and he will not be playing any of his music from the 20th century.
But I can’t help it myself.
I just have to see grumpy old Bob Dylan live.
THESE US Presidential elections seem to have garbage on the brain.
Only last week, Donald Trump described America as a “garbage can”.
Then a spectacularly unfunny comedian at a Trump rally in Madison Square Garden described Puerto Rico as “a floating island of garbage”.
And then, as a response to this brazenly racist jibe, Joe Biden was wheeled out of a dark corner of the Oval Office to unwisely rave about supporters of The Orange One.
“The only garbage I see floating out there is his supporters,” cried Joe.
“His demonisation of Latinos is unconscionable, and it’s un-American.”
Biden later backtracked, insisting he was talking about “the hateful rhetoric about Puerto Rico” rather than Trump supporters.
But Kamala Harris swiftly distanced herself from Joe’s ravings.
“I strongly disagree with any criticism of people based on who they vote for,” she said primly.
Kam is smart to do so, not least because Hillary Clinton famously blew her chances of becoming President by describing “half” of Trump’s supporters as “a basket of deplorables” back in 2016.
And here is the lesson of all this trash talk.
If you want people to vote for you, don’t call (or even slyly imply) that millions of them are garbage.
ABBA are the most private band in the world.
But Bjorn, Benny, Anni-Frid and Agnetha talked to Jan Gradvall, Sweden’s leading music writer, for his new book, Melancholy Undercover: The Book Of ABBA.
And the result is spectacular – as if the four Beatles, deep into their retirement, had all allowed a trusted journalist intimate access.
In 2024, ABBA are bigger than ever.
Their virtual avatars, depicting the group as they were in all their Nordic glory back in 1979, have sold two million tickets for their ABBA Voyage concert residency at the ABBA arena, a purpose-built venue in London’s Queen Elizabeth Park.
Jan’s theory for ABBA’s astonishing hold on our hearts is that there is a very human sadness at the core of their music, even when they are at their most gloriously euphoric.
If, like me, you looked into Agnetha Faltskog’s eyes in 1974 and were lost for ever, then I recommend this book.
I also recommend it to those who loved Mamma Mia! or ABBA Voyage or all those songs that are engraved on our hearts.
Melancholy Undercover is the only ABBA book the world will ever need.
ANYONE afraid the big rail unions are living in a dreary Life On Mars, everybody-out, fag smoke-enveloped past will not have been surprised to hear that Northern Rail are still using FAX MACHINES.
Conductors are allowed to use that new-fangled invention email.
But Northern Rail have failed to reach an agreement with Aslef that their drivers can be addressed with anything other than the cutting-edge technology of fax machines.
“Our job is to unleash the full power of emerging technology,” insists Matt Rice, chief operating officer of Northern Rail, with a straight face.
Quill pens? Cassettes? Betamax video tapes?
Aslef will be demanding steam trains next.
SHOWING what a good sport he is, Dune heart-throb Timothee Chalamet turned up at a Timothee Chalamet lookalike contest in New York.
Ironically, most of the contestants looked more like the Timothee on the big screen than the Wonka man did in the flesh. That was because of what he had on his upper lip. Nobody is sure what it was.
But it looked nothing like a moustache.
