In a move that has sent sherry splashing into laps across the Inns of Court, Donald Trump is reportedly set to nominate one Blanche – a person whose legal credentials are presumably measured in televised scowls – as Attorney General. British legal circles, those hallowed halls where precedent is worshipped and dignity is mandatory, are now monitoring the shift with the same enthusiasm one might reserve for a slow-motion carriage crash.
Let us parse this nomination. Blanche, whose full name may well be ‘Blanche of Pandering’ for all we know, is said to be a loyalist. A true believer. The sort of barrister who would argue that the Magna Carta was a suggestion, a minor inconvenience, a piece of parchment best used for propping up a wobbly lectern. The British legal establishment, still recovering from the shock of having to take American jurisprudence seriously, now faces the prospect of a Justice Department led by a human bulldog with a law degree.
One can only imagine the scene at Lincoln’s Inn: QCs pausing mid-argument, wigs askew, as the news trickles through. “Blanche? Good heavens, that’s not a name, that’s a paint colour for the walls of a asylum.” The shift is, as they say in teleprompter parlance, developing. But what is developing? A cold? A cough? A constitutional crisis in slow motion?
The key question, as always with the Trump administration, is: What does this mean for Britain? The answer, as ever, is nothing good. If Blanche is confirmed, we can expect a crackdown on everything from illegal immigration – a perennial obsession – to the very concept of fact. Expect the rule of law to be replaced by the rule of the loudest voice in the room. Expect subpoenas to become quaint historical artefacts.
Oh, and the quality of airport gin? It will doubtless remain mediocre. But in a world where the US Attorney General might be a woman named after a blancmange, does airport gin even matter? I think not. The bar for reality has been lowered to subterranean levels. We are now reporting from the fever dream, where the headlines write themselves and the hangovers are persistent.
To my British legal colleagues: I implore you, do not reach for the smelling salts. Reach for the gin. This story, like a bad cocktail, will only get worse with stirring. And as for Blanche, may she have the wisdom of Solomon, the patience of Job, and the resilience of a cockroach in a nuclear winter. She’ll need it.
