As the ever-charismatic Keir Starmer addressed a summit of world leaders over Zoom, the French were busy attempting the impossible—convincing Donald Trump that Vladimir Putin is, in fact, the bad guy.
A whirlwind day in the ongoing quest for peace began with Starmer declaring, “Russia doesn’t hold all the cards.” Europe, it seems, still has a couple of jokers up its sleeve.
One such card is Emmanuel Macron, who arrived in Washington on a mission to persuade Trump that Putin—on balance—is not the hero of this story. He brought along his wife, Brigitte, though if he thinks that will sway Trump, he’s sorely mistaken. The former president has never been one for older women.
The other wild card—perhaps more of a very dull card—is Starmer himself, who envisions his role as a modern-day Churchill. His contribution to history? Joining a summit in Kyiv via Zoom. Introduced as “Keira Starmera,” he stared blankly into the camera for a solid ten seconds, reminiscent of Orson Welles waiting for a cue. Finally, he broke the silence: “Colleagues,” he intoned—his way with words unparalleled—“Britain stands with Ukraine and will be increasing pressure on Russia!” This, it turns out, means sanctions on mink hats and, in place of an actual army, equipping Princess Anne for a parachute drop. As a further show of support, 10,000 second-hand Paddington Bears are en route—Britain may stand with Ukraine, but let’s not get carried away with spending.
Many a floundering prime minister has tried to revive their leadership with an ambitious foreign policy, and Starmer appears to believe that with America stepping back, Europe has an opportunity to rearm—under British leadership, of course. A noble idea. But can we afford it?
The question didn’t arise during a lackluster Commons statement, which Reform UK declined to attend (a quick check on GB News for their reasoning revealed only “technical difficulties”—namely, a test card of Sam Fox in a thong, accompanied by the tune of Spanish Flea). Des Swayne, bless him, pressed David Lammy on whether he would now refute the refutation of his earlier refutation of Trump as a “tyrant.”
“This is a serious matter,” Lammy replied in a hushed tone, because as any seasoned politician knows, the graver the situation, the softer the voice.
The prevailing Westminster consensus is that first, Putin will take Ukraine, and then he’ll come for the rest of us—fulfilling Russia’s long-standing ambition of conquering Surrey. The Commons kept track of unfolding events: The U.S. had sided with Putin in a United Nations vote—outrageous.
Boris Johnson had called for defense spending to rise to three percent—a significant intervention from a political heavyweight (likely issued while floating in a paddling pool). And the Trump-Macron press conference was delayed as they hashed out critical details, such as where Ukraine is and why, if they dislike Russia so much, they don’t simply move.
Despite it all, the Macrons and Trumps reportedly get along well—Melania and Emmanuel, sources say, even share a taste in hats.
At last, the leaders emerged before an ostentatious backdrop of gold curtains and flags—“So many flags, beautiful, big flags.” Macron laid on the Gallic charm. “Mr. President, dear Donald,” he cooed—Je t’aime, moi non plus. Wisely, he switched from English to French, sparing us the spectacle of him sounding like Inspector Clouseau attempting to defuse a “beumbe.”
Mission accomplished: Trump, in a likely breach of every diplomatic protocol, disclosed that Putin had agreed to allow peacekeepers to patrol post-war Ukraine.
Peace, it seems, is at hand—nestled in the palm of a very tiny hand.
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