Gus Carter

Gus Carter

Gus Carter is the deputy editor of The Spectator’s US edition.

The treatment of Henry Nowak’s killer was all about race

‘How can you say they’re not racist?’ a young Asian woman shouted from the public gallery. Vickrum Digwa had just been led down to the cells to serve a life sentence and an elderly man in a turban was calling his lawyer ‘a fucking bean head’. The tatty pinewood interior of Southampton Crown Court was descending, once again, into allegations of racism.  Vickrum Digwa will serve at least 21 years in prison for the murder of Henry Nowak. Last December, Digwa repeatedly stabbed the 18-year-old student with a ceremonial Sikh dagger. He then filmed Henry as he bled out, goading him.  When police arrived, Digwa claimed that Henry had been racially abusive and had knocked his turban off.

Trump falls back on ‘you’re fired!’ as midterms loom

From our US edition

Pam Bondi’s departure as attorney general has prompted the usual Kremlinologist speculation. One theory has it that Donald Trump was furious that she may have warned Democrat Eric Swalwell about a planned FBI release of documents detailing his past relationship with a Chinese spy. Bondi’s replacement, Todd Blanche, dismissed these claims as false. Another theory is that the President had finally had enough of her errors over the handling of the Epstein files, given Bondi was recently subpoenaed in a bipartisan effort by the House. And Trump is widely reported to be frustrated at her failure to indict his archenemies, former FBI director James Comey and New York Attorney General Letitia James. Those who are sympathetic to MAGA will have their own reasons for being unhappy with Bondi.

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The Boring Twenties: good British fun is being strangled

A century ago, Britain had reason to despair. A generation had been lost to war, influenza was killing those who survived and revolution was sweeping across Europe. A strange new movement called the Blackshirts was marching on Rome just as Russia’s civil war was ending in Soviet victory. Yet Britons were out having fun. The original Bright Young People cavorted across the country, holding scandalous parties. ‘Please wear a bathing suit and bring a bath towel and a bottle,’ read one invitation. The Metropolitan Police filled Bow Street’s cells with hundreds of nightclub revellers, mainly girls in fancy dress. Dancing, according to one clergyman, was a ‘very grave disease which is infecting the country’.

Inside the world of Reform’s mystery money man

Nigel Farage keeps eclectic company. Reform is not a party of slick spin doctors or career politicians. Instead, it is staffed by people like George Cottrell, the minor aristocrat and former convict, who acts as Farage’s fixer. He is, according to Farage, ‘like a son to me’. I’m told that Cottrell is often seen in the Reform offices in Millbank helping the party, although he is still described by party staff as a simple ‘unpaid volunteer’.  Cottrell, 32, has always had an air of dodginess about him. In 2016 he spent eight months in an American maximum security prison for wire fraud relating to an international money laundering conspiracy. He plans to publish a book called How to Launder Money early next year (the man has a sense of humour).

I’m the heir to Manhattan

I’m owed around $680 billion. Some 77 acres of downtown Manhattan belong to the Carter family, according to a letter written in 1894. Wall Street, Broadway and One World Trade Center – they all sit on a plot that is, by rights, mine. Yet here I am, grumbling about what ought to be in the pages of The Spectator. What went wrong? The story goes something like this. Shortly before independence, a pirate called Robert Edwards was licensed by the British to hunt down Spanish ships. He was so successful that the Crown gave him a slice of Manhattan as a reward. Edwards leased the land for 99 years to two brothers and subsequently died, lost at sea. That lease expired in 1877 and was supposed to be apportioned off to Edwards’s heirs. But that never happened.

How Browns lost the battle of the brasseries

Last month, the founder of the Browns restaurant chain was charged with killing his mother. Shocking news, but it feels somehow appropriate. Browns is the traditional lunch spot for families looking to feed their student child, the place where 2.2s are revealed and doomed university girlfriends introduced. Many parents have found themselves spending hundreds on lunch only to be told their far greater investment has been wasted on dreams of becoming a club promoter. Steak frites, please, with a side order of murderous intent. Browns began in Brighton, but only really got going when it spread to Oxford and Cambridge in the 1980s. Bristol got one in the early 1990s, decking out a neo-Byzantine library next to the Wills Memorial Building.

The tragedy of Starmer’s breakfast

Sometimes a small detail in a news story tells you more than a months-long investigation splashed across the front page. ‘Starmer appears to realise that he needs to do more to connect with his party and has begun a new charm offensive,’ the Sunday Times reported. Some MPs have been invited for breakfast and ‘No. 10 has apparently purchased a new toaster to cater for the demand.’ There we have it, ladies and gentlemen. Keir Starmer’s secret weapon in his war against British decline: a few slices of Hovis and an awkward offer of jam. ‘Aerrr, are you planning to, um, support our Borders Bill? Oh, so sorry, we’ve got some Utterly Butterly somewhere. Morgan, would you mind looking in the kitchen?

Very pretty and pretty gruesome: Ballad of a Small Player reviewed

Ballad of a Small Player opens with Lord Doyle, played by Colin Farrell, hiding from security in his trashed casino suite in Macau. After they’re gone, he slips into the corridor and sees a trolley holding a bouquet of flowers and a knife. I kept my eyes on the knife, expecting the jittery, paranoid gambling addict to grab the weapon. Instead he places a white rose in his green velvet lapel. Director Edward Berger (All Quiet on the Western Front, Conclave) enjoys playing these games of misdirection. It feels appropriate. Casinos – with their chandeliers, gaudy frescoes and croupiers in black tie – are contradictory places. Opulence in these temples of luck is both a way of hiding the brutality of emptying bank accounts, and a show of deference to the gods of fortune.

Meet Britain’s new RoboCops

‘Small but mighty,’ is how Baroness Casey described Bedfordshire Police when she released her report on grooming gangs over the summer. She told MPs that most forces had failed to properly record child abuse. ‘A bloody disaster, frankly’. But Bedfordshire is different. They’re using artificial intelligence so police can spend more time hunting criminals.  ‘I didn’t know about Louise Casey’s comments until you contacted us,’ says Trevor Rodenhurst, the chief constable of the county. That’s unsurprising. Rodenhurst is a busy man. We meet in his office on the outskirts of Bedford, under an official portrait of the King; behind his computer is his ceremonial tipstaff and photographs of his children.

Welcome to the age of reluctant socialism

There are no revolutionaries in Europe’s streets. No communists marching on parliament buildings. If anything, the continent has seen a rightward shift over the past decade. And yet Europe is becoming the home of a reluctant, greying socialism.  In France, the new Sébastien Lecornu regime is considering a wealth tax on entrepreneurs and the rich rather than slash its gargantuan social security bill. ‘France has not known a balanced budget for 51 years,’ said the former prime minister François Bayrou last week as he was voted into political oblivion. He, like many of his predecessors, had failed to reform the pension system. ‘You can get rid of the government, but you can’t get rid of reality.’ France’s MPs disagreed.

The false economy of cutting the Combined Cadet Force

What could be more fun for a 14-year-old boy than messing about in the woods with a gun? My school’s Combined Cadet Force offered precisely that, marching us through the Brecon Beacons and organising mock skirmishes with SA80 rifles (albeit using blanks). When we weren’t trying to shoot each other, we were fighting over OS maps and compasses, trying to find which bit of woodland we were supposed to be sleeping in. One group found a dead body on the side of a Welsh mountain. Another spent an evening drinking vodka and smoking cigarettes with a strange man in a caravan. At some point in the small hours, he got a little too handsy and they all ran back to their bivvies. I was hugely envious when they told us this as we ate powdered eggs, cooked in a mess tin over burning hexamine tablets.

I flew to Florence to find my father’s shoes

Just before my father died, he visited Mannina in Florence to have his feet measured for a pair of shoes. I’d found the handwritten receipt in his desk on thin yellow paper, stapled with samples of leather. Online pictures of Mannina showed a glass-fronted shop of lacquered wood and brass, the name in beveled gold across the door. So after months without a holiday, I booked a cheap short haul flight from London to Italy, determined to track down these missing shoes.  My father had been a tailor for much of his life, the third man in Pakeman Catto & Carter, an established men’s clothing shop in the Gloucestershire town of Cirencester. ‘At one point he’d dressed half the gentlemen of England,’ my uncle said at his funeral, which is probably not far from the truth.

How private equity ruined Britain

What has happened to Britain’s rivers isn’t a mistake. The fact that serious pollution is up 60 per cent on the year, or that only one in seven rivers can be called ecologically healthy, is the result of corporate tactics. It is effluent from the murky world of private equity. Some 2.5 million people in the UK now work for a business that is ultimately owned by private equity. Since the 2008 financial crisis, Britain has become a prime target for takeovers, driven by low company valuations, favourable exchange rates and a pliable regulatory environment. Everything from Bella Italia to the Blackpool Tower, Travelodge to Legoland, the AA to Zizzi, has been owned by private equity. Today, it claims to make around £7 in every £100 generated for the British economy.

How deepfake fraud is rewiring our minds

From our US edition

We’re led to believe that America was once Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood, a place of cardigans and kindness where everyone got along just swell. Then it all went wrong. MSNBC hosts talk of a “crisis in authority” while New York Times columnists blame corrupt Republicans for a “lost faith in liberal governance.” Right-leaning commentators point to mass migration as the great trust killer. Illegal aliens, we’re told, have a “fragmenting effect on shared cultural norms” and are “importing distrust.” No doubt these arguments contain an element of truth: America is a less trusting society than it was a few decades ago. But soon such arguments are going to appear as quaint as Mister Rogers’s model Pennsylvanian town.

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Why fishing matters

Not everything is about money. If it were, we’d be merrily sending our oldies off to assisted dying hubs to free up the social care budget. The fishing industry is one of those parts of public life that is about more than raw GDP. But Keir Starmer has handed over access to British waters for another full 12 years in return for what he deems more lucrative EU concessions. It’s a mistake, because fishing is about more than cash. It’s about what it means for us to be a free and confident country.  There is something more than a little irksome about letting foreign fishermen into our waters in return for faster passport gates, especially when it’s going to make this declining industry worse off For a start, there’s the obvious point about sovereignty.

Welcome to Scuzz Nation

Reform’s success in last week’s local elections has been attributed to many causes. Labour’s abolition of the winter fuel payment for pensioners. The hollowing out of the Conservative party’s campaigning base. Nigel Farage’s mastery of social media. But if you want an emblem of why voters turned their back on the political establishment let me give you Goat Man. In one ward in Runcorn, the seat Labour lost to Reform by just six votes, residents found that no one would listen when a neighbour filled his derelict house with goats and burned the animals’ manure in his garden. Despite repeated appeals to authority, no action was taken.

Maybe you’re not anxious. Maybe you’re just stressed

Something rather odd has happened to the way we talk about worry. The straightforward term ‘stress’ has been overtaken by the quasi-medical concept of ‘anxiety’. The problem is that the words don’t mean the same thing and treating them as interchangeable can have unhappy consequences. The way we use the term ‘stress’ is different to the semantics of ‘anxiety’. Stress tends to have its causes outside – deadlines, bills, crying kids, nagging bosses. Events can be stressful. We all suffer from occasional stresses and strains. These are things that happen to us. Stress is circumstantial, episodic, even inevitable.

Yes, men need saving

A few weeks ago, when Adolescence first came out, I found myself reading some of the academic literature on incels. It turns out they are a risk – but only really to themselves. When interviewed, over half of incels said they had considered killing themselves in the previous two weeks, compared to 5 per cent of the population who had thought about it in the past year. There isn’t much research directly linking suicide to incel culture, but we do know that the rate at which teenage boys are killing themselves is at its highest level for 30 years. Incels that kill tend only to kill themselves. But hang on, aren’t those screen-addled teenage boys still a risk to others? A little bit, but not massively.

Pensioners, it’s your turn to cough up

The welfare state is grotesquely unfair. There are people who receive thousands of pounds from the taxpayer with little government oversight, even when they have no genuine need for the cash. They spend it on things like cars, flat screen TVs and other luxury ephemera. And there is a sense of entitlement among these scroungers, a feeling that they are somehow owed the fruits of other people’s labour. These people are of course pensioners. ‘But, but, but,’ I hear them gargle through Wine Society crémant, ‘I’ve paid into the system all my life, I’ve earnt my pension!’ No you haven’t. You very unwisely handed over your taxes to successive governments who spaffed it on Millennium Domes and Ethiopian Spice Girls.

Meet the Zoomer Doomers: Britain’s secret right-wing movement

One of the striking aspects of the AfD’s success in the German elections was the party’s popularity among the young, especially men under 25: one in four voted for the hard-right movement. Support for bracingly conservative positions among Gen-Z men isn’t just a German phenomenon, however. In Westminster and beyond, a new breed of young right-wing influencers is seeking to shift our politics. Meet the Zoomer Doomers. They use acerbic posts to humiliate the defenders of the status quo, in a strategy known as ‘from posting to policy’. Terms such as ‘Boriswave’ – which refers to the net migration figure that spiked at 900,000 under Johnson’s leadership – first appeared within this network.