When my children were still in primary school, there was a resurgence of that mad conspiracy theory – popularised by David Icke – that all politicians and several members of the Royal Family belonged to a species of human-like lizard, intent on taking over the planet.
I only found out about this recently when, in conversation with my now adult children over a glass of wine, they told me that, following assurances by fellow pupils that I and their father – Michael Gove – belonged to this mysterious lizard-sect, they set out to discover the truth.
One night, while we were sleeping, they crept into our bedroom, hearts in their mouths, to see if we were resting in our true lizard form (which they had been informed we would be). After careful observation, and unable to find any scaly evidence, they returned to their beds, somewhat relieved but also, they confessed, a little disappointed.
Having relayed their findings to their classmates, a degree of suspicion nevertheless lingered. They remained vigilant, alert to signs of general lizard-like behaviour (eating flies, shedding skin, that sort of thing). They couldn’t quite be sure, you see, and besides, the rumour had come from Cheyne, who was the most popular boy in school, so how could it not be true?
Why mention this? Well, because until recently the idea that multiple members of our ruling elite belonged to a debauched club run by a mysterious figure with a penchant for extremely young women with whom they frolicked, frequently semi-naked, at star-studded parties, would have seemed to me as outlandish as the lizard conspiracy.
After all, I’ve spent a fair amount of time in the company of politicians and prime ministers, and I can assure you, weekends at Chequers were a laugh, but the only sauce was the chef’s excellent gravy at Sunday lunch.
Besides, no politician or celebrity in their right mind would compromise themselves in that way, surely? You would have to be an idiot. Either that or an entitled, arrogant prig.
Turns out I was wrong. It would appear that not just the erstwhile former prince Andrew but also several of our best-known public figures were embroiled, in one way or another, in Jeffrey Epstein and Ghislaine Maxwell’s debauched world. The evidence emerging from the gradual release of the Epstein files, and in particular the latest cache of photographs featuring a gallery of familiar faces, is undeniable.
Bill Clinton, Andrew, the late Michael Jackson, Mick Jagger, Kevin Spacey and Richard Branson and others, all photographed in various locations, some of which have weird, tasteless, pornographic art on the walls and drawers stuffed with sex toys.
A lot of it looks like the set of some terrible porn film. Perhaps it was. Cameras are everywhere, together with massage equipment and a plethora of unguents.
Elsewhere, familiar faces lark around in various stages of disarray. Ghislaine Maxwell herself, posing knickerless in the driver’s seat of a car. A stuffed tiger (of course there’s a stuffed tiger). Incriminating letters, breast-shaped cakes. Clinton with a scantily clad young lovely on his
knee. A weird portrait of him in a blue dress. Naked women with quotes from Lolita scrawled on their bodies. Written requests to procure girls.
It’s all so surreal, so strange and dark, really dark, like a political version of David Lynch’s drama Twin Peaks.
THE extent of any one of these individuals’ involvement with Epstein’s lifestyle remains unclear, but how could anyone witnessing that kind of set-up not sense that something very wrong was going on?
There are red flags everywhere, and yet still they accepted his invitations. Still they came. Why? Really, there are only two reasons: either they wanted his money – or they liked what he was peddling. Both speak to a total absence of any moral compass whatsoever. They were either in on it or they wanted to be in on it.
These latest revelations also underline the inevitability of the King’s defenestration of
his brother. He must have had sight of some of this stuff, or at least an inkling.
It beggars belief that Andrew thought he could get away with passing off his close ties to Epstein as a harmless friendship, one which we now know continued well after the late financier
had been rumbled as a paedophile. I used to feel a bit sorry for Andrew. I hate it when people get cancelled, mainly because things are rarely as black and white as they may seem. But honestly, every aspect of his association with Epstein – from the fawning emails to the quid pro quo invitations to Sandringham – just mark him out as a creep.
Maybe he didn’t have sex with Virginia Giuffre illegally on the night of that fateful photograph – but knowing the context, as he must have done, any man with even an ounce of moral fibre would have made his excuses and fled.
That’s what’s so shocking about this whole stinking saga, and why it’s so deeply depressing. It’s proof that all the worst things you never wanted to believe about wealthy, powerful people are, in fact, true. Some are depraved, they do think they are above the law, they do trample on young girls’ dreams. Although not, of course, those of their own daughters.
Not quite lizards – but very definitely reptiles.
What does the Epstein scandal reveal about the morals and accountability of the rich and powerful?
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Both the Prince and Princess of Wales and the Sussexes released their so-called Christmas cards last week, and neither are up to scratch.
A Christmas card should be Christmassy – yet both these appear to have been taken in the spring, judging by the daffodils and see-through floaty dresses. Where is the tinsel? Where are the jingle bells? Why no reindeer?
By contrast, Joan Collins and Percy Gibson’s card is the perfect Christmas greeting. Plenty of baubles and a light dusting of artificial snow. They’re even cradling a Santa baby. Top marks!
It’s true – tax doesn’t have to be taxing… if you’re the Deputy Prime Minister.
As ordinary people up and down the country struggle to navigate Rachel Reeves’ complex new rules ahead of the January 31 filing deadline, it turns out David Lammy gets the taxpayer to pay for his.
He’s claimed back almost £7,000 for accountants’ costs. Happy Christmas!
This year, I have enacted a new rule: I’m getting everyone pre-loved presents. There’s already too much stuff in the world – so I thought that instead of adding more, I would just help move it all around a bit. I must confess, it’s been rather fun – like having my own private little pre-Christmas.
Every day brings a new package from Vinted or eBay, which may or may not be complete rubbish – but which might also be a bit of a gem.
It’s not only much cheaper than buying everything new, it’s also much more fun than trawling round garishly lit shops listening to terrible Christmas tunes.
Note to self: you are 58, not 28, you absolute idiot. You cannot just decide to carry a very heavy chest of drawers up a flight of stairs. It’s either a cracked rib or a very bad bruise. Either way, bloody agony.
