In a development that has left political analysts reaching for the nearest bottle of gin, a man whose primary qualification for high office appears to be his ability to scream at people on television is now within spitting distance of a mayoral chain. Yes, dear reader, the United States, that great laboratory of democratic experimentation, is once again proving that the line between entertainment and governance has been erased entirely, possibly with a Sharpie during a particularly bad episode of reality TV.
Our transatlantic cousins are currently gripped by the tale of one Rupert 'Rumble' McSnide, a former contestant on a show called 'Boardroom of Doom' who parlayed his reputation for backstabbing and grandstanding into a credible run for mayor of a major city. The fact that his campaign platform consists largely of vague promises to 'drain the swamp' and 'make traffic great again' seems not to have dampened his appeal. Indeed, his approval ratings have soared faster than a soufflé in a blast furnace, buoyed by a demographic that appears to equate charisma with volume.
Across the pond, the British government has issued a cautious warning about the 'populist drift' exemplified by such candidacies. A spokesperson for the Foreign Office, looking suitably worried and perhaps a little hungover, intoned: 'We have seen this before. The allure of the strongman, the showman, the man who promises to simplify complex issues into catchy slogans. It never ends well.' One can almost hear the ghost of Clement Attlee tutting from beyond the grave.
But let us not pretend that Britain is immune to such nonsense. Our own political landscape is littered with the carcasses of rationality, from the Brexit bus to the 'oven-ready deal' that turned out to be rather undercooked. The difference, perhaps, is that we package our absurdity in tweed and polite euphemisms, while Americans prefer it neon-lit and served with a side of processed cheese.
The McSnide phenomenon is a masterpiece of post-truth politics. He has never held public office, which his supporters cite as evidence of his purity. He has been accused of everything from tax evasion to cruelty to small animals, yet each scandal only seems to strengthen his base. His rallies are less political events than secular revivals, complete with merchandise hawking and the occasional fight in the car park. Democracy, it appears, has become a spectator sport.
Meanwhile, the UK's warning is both timely and hypocritical. We have our own parade of reality-adjacent politicians, from former television presenters to celebrity businessmen who treat governance like a hostile takeover. The difference is one of scale and style, not substance. The Home Office's statement, carefully worded to avoid offence, essentially translates to: 'Please don't do what we did, because it was a disaster.'
What is to be done? The media, of course, is complicit. Every outrageous statement from McSnide is broadcast as though it were a legitimate policy proposal. His opponents, pallid and earnest, struggle to compete with his sheer theatricality. The only hope, it seems, is that voters will eventually tire of the spectacle. But history suggests otherwise. We are addicted to drama, and politics now provides the most compelling show in town.
So raise a glass to Mayor McSnide, whoever he may be. In the great pantomime of democracy, he is merely the latest clown to grab the microphone. The tragedy is that we are all part of the audience, and we keep applauding. The UK's warning is a mirror held up to our own faces. Do we see the reflection, or do we just adjust our party hats?
As for this correspondent, I shall be in the press gallery, notebook in hand and gin in flask, documenting the glorious, terrifying spectacle of a civilisation slowly voting itself into an asylum. The news doesn't make itself, after all. Someone has to be the court jester.
