Colin Freeman

Somewhere at the bottom of the Fleet Street food chain is the hapless junior reporter known as the ‘milk bottle’. So-called because most of their time is spent hanging around on doorsteps, seeking comment from people who almost never want to talk. It is one of journalism’s lower art forms, requiring the patience of a stalker and the persistence of a chugger – and if I sound sniffy, that’s because I put in plenty time as a ‘milk-bottle’ myself in my early career in the 1990s. The nearest I ever got an interview was Liam Gallagher telling me to fuck off. Several minor royals called the police. Someone in Tessa Jowell’s house – they never did answer the door – called Downing Street. A few threw punches.

As political speeches go, it struck familiar themes. An island nation was being overrun by dangerous criminals, taking advantage of its asylum system. Word was spreading that the country was a soft touch. And as ever, millions of ordinary folks were paying the price. The violence is largely confined to the ghettoes, and many struggle to see why Britain’s asylum system classifies Trinidad as a warzone from which its citizens deserved sanctuary Nigel Farage, on the stump in Clacton-on-Sea in 2024? Or Home Secretary Shabana Mahmoud, perhaps, unveiling her tough new Danish-style migration policy earlier this month? No, the speaker was Keith Rowley, the prime minister of Trinidad and Tobago, 3,000 miles away in the Caribbean. But the island he was talking about was indeed Britain.

Judging by how well it fares in the annual UN World Happiness Report, there’s not much rotten in the state of Denmark. It regularly tops the UN chart and while it might feel slightly glib to compare wealthy nations with warzones – why can't those gloomy Afghans, languishing at 147th, cheer up? – the wider world can't get enough of those Danish feelgood vibes. This, after all, is the land that gave us hygge, a hard-to-define word translating roughly as ‘cosiness’ – wellness candles, fresh pastries and nights in by the fire. Many Danes have clearly decided that hygge is not quite compatible with open borders and multi-culturalism Recently, however, the Danish criteria for national happiness has shifted somewhat – and it doesn’t involve baked apples or alpaca jumpers.

The masked gunmen of Jaish al-Adl are probably not the kind of people Donald Trump had in mind when he talked about “regime change” in Iran. A terror group in Iran’s southeastern Baluchistan region, they have a bloodthirsty record of shootings and suicide bombings, all part of a jihad for a separate Baluchi homeland. They are, however, excited by Israel and America’s bombing campaign, which they see as a once-in-a-lifetime chance to achieve their goal. As they declared recently: “We extend the hand of brotherhood to all the people of Iran to join the ranks of the Resistance.” How long that brotherhood would last is another matter.

As a man who views the world as one big real-estate portfolio, Donald Trump sees the potential in northern Somalia’s Puntland region. Lousy government, maybe, and definitely more than a few bad guys around. But Puntland has great winter sun and tremendous beaches, folks. It could be just the place to resettle Palestinians from the Gaza Strip. Jordan and Egypt have all but refused to rehouse Gaza’s population and according to Israeli diplomats, Puntland has made the shortlist of new Palestinian homelands. The Trump sales pitch is that this will allow Gazans to create “far safer and more beautiful communities” than their homeland could ever offer. The Strip meanwhile, will be rebuilt into a Dubai-on-the-Med.

Kyiv Had America and the Soviet Union ever fought the battle of Armageddon, it would have started from beneath a patch of muddy fields a few hours’ drive south of Kyiv. It’s here, in an underground base near the once-closed town of Pervomaisk, that Moscow housed 80 strategic nuclear missiles, all pointed at the US. Today it’s a museum, a dark tourism excursion, with a 120-foot long ‘Satan’ missile on display. Satan carried 10 warheads plus 40 decoys, and could have single-handedly flattened Britain. The only disappointment, for the Dr Strangeloves among us, is the base’s ‘nuclear button’ – not a red switch with a skull-and-crossbones, but a dull grey key on a VHS-style console marked ‘Start Up’.