For a while now, net zero has been treated as someone else’s concern. A corporate issue. A boardroom problem. Something for listed companies with sustainability teams, glossy ESG reports and the time, and money, to worry about long-term targets.

For sole traders, freelancers and self-employed founders, it has often felt safely distant. Something to watch from the sidelines while getting on with the real business of earning a living.

That distance is shrinking fast.

As 2025 draws to a close, there are growing signs that parts of UK business are quietly retreating from their climate commitments. Targets are being pushed back. Language is being softened. Pledges that once felt non-negotiable are suddenly being framed as “aspirational”. The pressure of high costs, political uncertainty and fragile growth is taking its toll.

But if larger companies easing off net zero is worrying, for sole traders it should be a flashing warning light.

Because when the tide goes out, it’s the smallest businesses that feel it first.

Why “i’m too small to matter” no longer holds

For years, many sole traders have assumed sustainability was optional. No shareholders to answer to. No annual report. No scrutiny beyond clients and HMRC.

That assumption is now outdated.

More and more organisations,  particularly larger businesses, are being asked to account for the environmental impact of their entire supply chain. Not just what they manufacture or sell, but who they work with, who they hire and how those partners operate.

That includes freelancers, consultants, contractors, creatives and tradespeople.

Carbon awareness is fast becoming part of basic commercial hygiene, alongside insurance, data protection and financial compliance. It doesn’t require perfection, but it does require intent. If you can’t demonstrate that you’re at least making an effort to reduce your footprint, someone else will, and they’ll be easier to justify to procurement teams, compliance departments and risk committees.

In other words, sustainability is becoming part of employability.

The pressure is real – but so is the risk of retreat

It’s easy to see why some sole traders feel tempted to step back. Energy bills remain volatile. Clients are watching costs closely. Margins are thin. When you’re running a business alone, juggling tax, admin, sales and delivery, climate commitments can feel like an extra burden you didn’t sign up for.

But abandoning carbon neutrality in 2026 wouldn’t be an act of realism. It would be a strategic misstep.

Net zero isn’t a trend that peaked and faded. It’s a structural shift driven by economics as much as policy. Energy markets are changing. Finance is repricing risk. Customers are making choices based on values as well as price. None of that reverses simply because the headlines move on.

Waiting for “certainty” before acting is a familiar trap, and a costly one. It’s like waiting for the perfect moment to start saving for retirement. By the time it arrives, you’re already behind.

Net zero, for sole traders, was never about grand gestures

One of the reasons sustainability feels intimidating is the assumption that it demands dramatic, expensive change: electric vehicles overnight, solar panels on every roof, complex audits and endless paperwork.

In reality, for most sole traders, net zero has always been about direction rather than transformation.

It’s about being thoughtful with energy use. Choosing renewable tariffs where possible. Reducing unnecessary travel. Working digitally rather than printing by default. Being mindful about suppliers, waste and efficiency. Offsetting what genuinely can’t be avoided.

These aren’t headline-grabbing moves. They’re the kind of incremental decisions sole traders make all the time to stay competitive.

And often, they make financial sense. Energy efficiency lowers bills. Fewer journeys save time and money. Leaner operations reduce waste. Sustainability, approached sensibly, tends to align neatly with being well-run and resilient.

When you are the brand, reputation is everything

For sole traders, reputation isn’t an abstract concept. It’s personal.

Clients don’t just buy your services; they buy you, your judgement, your reliability, your values. Quietly walking away from climate commitments sends a signal of short-term thinking at exactly the moment clients are looking for reassurance and stability.

By contrast, being able to say, calmly and without fanfare, “I run my business responsibly” builds trust. It differentiates you in crowded markets. And it reassures clients who are themselves under pressure to demonstrate progress.

This isn’t virtue signalling. It’s risk management.

Holding your nerve doesn’t mean doing everything

Sticking with net zero in 2026 doesn’t require radical overhaul. It requires honesty, proportion and consistency.

It means understanding your footprint, taking reasonable steps to reduce it, communicating clearly with clients, and resisting the temptation to quietly drop commitments when times get tough.

Most of all, it means rejecting the idea that sustainability is something you’ll “come back to later”. Later has a habit of never arriving.

If 2025 has shown signs of retreat, 2026 should be the year sole traders do the opposite, not because it’s fashionable, but because it’s commercially sensible.

Net zero isn’t a corporate badge of honour. It’s a signal that you understand risk, opportunity and the direction of travel.

For businesses that aren’t limited, don’t have buffers, and can’t afford reputational missteps, that understanding may be one of the most valuable assets you own.

Holding your nerve now isn’t idealism.

It’s good business.

Read more:
Net zero isn’t just for big business – why sole traders must hold their nerve in 2026

If you ran a micro‑business in 2025, a sole trader or an embryonic start‑up, you probably spent the year feeling as if you were cycling up Box Hill with a sack of bricks strapped to your back.

Taxes rose, prices rose, confidence faltered, and yet there were also glimpses of opportunity in artificial intelligence, renewable power and a mercifully calmer labour market. It was a year that made you say “wow”, though not always for the right reasons.

The big issue was the tax burden. Rachel Reeves’s autumn Budget from 2024 continued to reverberate. The British Chambers of Commerce found that by December 63 % of firms were worried about taxes, and only 49 % expected their turnover to increase. Employer National Insurance contributions went up and have hit small firms disproportionately because they cannot spread costs across large payrolls.

Many entrepreneurs shelved hiring plans and froze investment; the BCC predicts that the economy will grow by only 1.2 % in 2026. Even those focusing on exports faced headwinds: 62 % of exporters to the United States expected Donald Trump’s proposed tariffs to hurt them, and over 54 % of exporters still struggled with EU trading rules.

At the macro level the economy limped along. The Office for National Statistics reported that GDP grew just 0.1 % in the third quarter, with production actually shrinking. Real household disposable income fell 0.8 % and the saving ratio dropped to 9.5, hardly a climate conducive to small business sales. Inflation did ease; the Bank of England noted CPI inflation at 3.2 % in November and cut the Bank rate to 3.75 %, with expectations that it will fall towards 3 % in early 2026. But the bank also warned that GDP growth was stalling and forecast zero growth in the last quarter of 2025.

For sole traders, the cost of labour remained a pressing concern. The ONS’s Business Insights and Conditions Survey showed that 30 % of trading businesses planned to raise prices in January 2026 because of higher labour costs, and a third cited economic uncertainty as the primary challenge. As a hairdresser, café owner or freelance designer you may have considered raising your prices or cutting hours simply to stay afloat.

There were also some very visible casualties among larger SME peers. The high street continued its slow collapse: Bodycare closed all 147 stores, making 1,500 staff redundant; Amazon Fresh shut its 19 till‑free supermarkets; Beales, Beaverbrooks, Claire’s and New Look all downsized or entered administration. Forbes Burton estimated that more than 120,000 jobs were affected by business closures. If you depended on footfall from a local shopping centre, those closures hurt.

Yet 2025 wasn’t all doom. Small businesses in the green and digital sectors enjoyed remarkable tailwinds. Britain’s wind turbines generated a record 23,825 MW in early December, supplying nearly half of the country’s electricity. Solar output broke records, with 14 GW on the grid in July and total generation up 32 % in the first half of 2025.

For electricians fitting solar panels, consultants specialising in ESG reporting or start‑ups developing energy‑efficiency software, this boom created an expanding market. On the export front the UK’s defence industry sold more than £20 billion of kit, including frigates for Norway and Typhoon jets for Turkey. That brought supply‑chain opportunities to small manufacturers and sub‑contractors.

Artificial intelligence was perhaps the single most talked‑about opportunity. A survey by the BCC and Intuit found that 35 % of SMEs were using AI in 2025, up from 25 % the year before. Another 24 % planned to adopt it; only a third had no plans.

B2B services were leading the way, with 46 % adoption, while just 26 % of manufacturing SMEs used AI Most used AI for content creation or administrative work – generating social media posts, invoices or proposals.

Tools like OpenAI’s ChatGPT and image generators allowed sole traders to operate with the marketing reach of a larger firm, as long as they invested time in learning them. Tech heavyweights noticed: Nvidia promised £500 million to build NScale, a cloud platform that will deliver 120,000 GPUs in the UK, roughly 100 times the computing power of our current fastest supercomputer. Synthesia raised £146 million and Oracle pledged £3.9 billion. All of this points to cheaper, faster AI services in the years ahead.

Business groups do warn that the external environment will remain tough in 2026. The CBI upgraded its GDP growth projection to 1.3 % but said that the improvement is largely due to short‑term government spending. It noted persistent weakness in private demand and predicted that business investment would remain subdued. Rising labour and energy costs and a complex tax system continue to strangle growth. The Guardian reported that the CBI’s private‑sector growth indicator fell to −30 %, signalling a downturn across all sectors. Job vacancies shrank for a fifth straight month. Meanwhile, the strike wave that began in 2022 continued to disrupt supply chains. NHS doctors planned another walkout, universities were striking over pay, and rail workers threatened a national strike. For a sole trader reliant on trains to deliver goods or on childcare services to free up your workday, these disruptions are more than a headline; they’re a day’s trading lost.

On the brighter side there are some reasons for optimism. The OECD believes growth will pick up slightly to 1.2 % in 2026 and that inflation will fall to 2.5 %. The Halifax predicts house prices will rise by 1–3 % next year, which could encourage homeowners to loosen their purse strings. The government’s Budget included a £150 reduction in household energy bills from April 2026 by shifting some renewable obligations onto the Treasury. Combined with falling mortgage rates, that could lift consumer spending a little. A December Purchasing Managers’ Index reached 52.1, indicating the strongest growth in new service‑sector business in over a year. Productivity rose 1 % in the first half of 2025, and some analysts think AI adoption is finally nudging British firms to invest in efficiency.

If you are running a small business in 2026, what should you do? First, embrace digital tools. Free or low‑cost AI platforms can help with marketing, customer service and even product design. Second, keep an eye on energy costs, solar panels or energy‑efficiency upgrades may qualify for subsidies and cut your bills in the long run. Third, watch for government support: the SME Digital Adoption Taskforce has been advocating for funding and training, and the Warm Home Discount has been expanded. Fourth, build resilience into your operations. Industrial disputes and supply‑chain disruptions are becoming structural; flexible working arrangements and diversified suppliers will reduce your vulnerability. Finally, remember that behind the gloom there is a long‑term shift towards a greener, more digital British economy. If you can survive the bumps in the road, the occasional “wow” moments, there is real scope for small, agile firms to thrive.

Read more:
“Wow” – what a year for British small businesses

It’s a curious thing, this sense of waiting for a Budget. For most, it’s an exercise in mild anxiety – a check to see whether wine duty is up again or whether you can still afford to fill the tank. But for business owners in London right now, the wait for Rachel Reeves’ first full Budget on 26 November feels less like a nervous twitch and more like a death row countdown.

Charlie Gilkes, who co-founded Inception Group and runs some of London’s most imaginative bars – Mr Fogg’s, Bunga Bunga, the kind of places where post-pandemic optimism briefly came alive again – summed it up with alarming accuracy: “It feels like waiting on death row, waiting until the very last moment to let us know whether she will grant a stay of execution.”

And you can see his point. Reeves’ Budget, which has been rescheduled, delayed, and wrapped in more mystery than a Bond villain’s plot, is arriving under the kind of cloud that usually means someone’s about to pay – and it’ll probably be London.

For weeks now, the rumours have been circulating through Westminster corridors like wasps around a picnic: a wealth tax here, a mansion tax there, a shake-up of partnerships, a business rates “super multiplier”. Each idea lands like another nail being gently tapped into the coffin of the capital’s competitiveness.

The problem is not that the government wants to raise money – everyone knows the country’s finances look like a student overdraft in week one of term. The problem is who they’re going to shake down to do it. Because when politicians say “we all need to contribute,” what they often mean is “London can pay.”

Let’s put this in perspective. London generates £618 billion a year in GDP – roughly 22 per cent of the UK total. Add the South East, and you’re close to half. The capital and its surrounds contribute nearly 30 per cent of all income tax and more than 30 per cent of business rates. It’s the engine room of the UK economy, the bit that keeps the lights on while politicians from every party take turns kicking it in the shins.

And yet, Reeves’ team seem ready to push through reforms that will disproportionately batter the capital’s businesses. The “super multiplier” for properties with rateable values over £500,000 – a neat way of saying “we’ll tax your London office more because it looks expensive” – could mean rates as high as 58p in the pound.

To call that punitive would be an understatement. It’s an electric shock to every business with a W1 postcode. It doesn’t matter that these companies are already shelling out eye-watering sums for rent, staffing and utilities – the Treasury still wants its slice, preferably before the till opens.

David Jones of Avison Young pointed out the obvious but crucial truth: business rates are a direct overhead. They don’t come out of profit; they come out of existence. You pay them whether you’re making money or not. It’s the fiscal equivalent of being asked to chip in for your own executioner’s new axe.

And then there’s the wealth tax carousel. Reeves’ team is said to be looking at removing the capital gains exemption on homes worth more than £1.5 million. That might sound like it targets the super-rich, but in London that’s not a mansion – it’s a family home with a kitchen extension and a decent postcode. Roughly 11 per cent of London properties sit above that threshold, compared to 2 per cent elsewhere.

James Evans of Douglas & Gordon hit the nail on the head: “In many neighbourhoods, £1.5 million is far from a mansion.” Quite. It’s a three-bed terrace in Clapham with peeling paintwork and a leaking skylight. If that’s “wealth,” then Britain’s definition of luxury needs a serious reality check.

Add to that the possible 1 per cent annual levy on homes over £2 million, and you’ve got a policy cocktail that would make even Mr Fogg wince. These aren’t just taxes; they’re deterrents – neon signs flashing “London: Closed for Business” to anyone thinking of investing, relocating, or even staying put.

And let’s not forget the white-collar crowd. Reeves is reportedly eyeing changes to how partnership income is taxed, which could hit the capital’s law firms and consultancies squarely in the solar plexus. Partners who earn seven figures might not be your first sympathy vote, but when they leave – and they will leave, because Dubai, New York and Singapore all smile more kindly on their tax codes – the ripple effect will hit everything from sandwich shops to spin studios.

Charlie Gilkes isn’t just speaking for himself. He’s speaking for a city that’s been through hell these past few years – from lockdowns that gutted hospitality to staffing crises, inflation, rent hikes and endless policy tinkering. What London needs is stability, predictability, a sense that the rules won’t be rewritten every six months. What it’s getting instead is a Treasury that seems to view its success as a problem to be solved.

It’s a funny kind of masochism that defines our politics: punish the productive, milk the metropolitan, and then act surprised when the rest of the country runs dry.

London doesn’t want special treatment. It just wants recognition that when you squeeze the capital, the whole of Britain feels the pressure. The trains built in Derby, the fabrics woven in Huddersfield, the wine poured in Soho – they’re all part of the same chain. Cut off the top, and the bottom collapses.

So yes, as Reeves sharpens her red pen and business owners sit counting the days until the 26th, it does feel like waiting on death row. But perhaps, just perhaps, the Chancellor will look up at the gallows, take a deep breath, and decide that execution isn’t quite the growth strategy Britain needs right now.

Until then, we wait – strapped in, chin up, praying for a last-minute reprieve.

Read more:
Waiting on Reeves: London entrepreneurs face the gallows

It’s not often you see a supermarket make national news for not letting someone work for free. Usually the outrage runs in the other direction—“greedy corporations exploiting unpaid labour” and so on.

But today’s piece in The Telegraph about Waitrose and Tom Boyd, a 27-year-old man with severe autism, has managed to flip that script entirely. And in doing so, it has revealed something rather telling about the way big companies like to wrap themselves in the language of “inclusion” while quietly stripping the humanity out of it.

Tom, by all accounts, was a model volunteer. For four years, nine hours a week, he stacked shelves at the Cheadle Hulme branch. He turned up on time, was loved by staff, and—most importantly—he belonged. His mum, Frances, says he’d given more than six hundred hours of his life to that store. That’s not a “trial shift” or a “placement”. That’s a commitment longer than most marriages. And then, the moment she dared ask if he could be paid, Waitrose said no, and shut the whole thing down.

Now, if you’ve ever dealt with a big corporate HR department, you can almost hear the cogs whirring. Alarm bells, legal risk, safeguarding, health and safety. Someone in Bracknell probably got a “risk alert” email saying “URGENT: volunteer exceeding hours threshold, potential classification as employee.” So they did what corporates always do when confronted with something messy, human and potentially emotional: they pulled the plug.

This, I think, is what people mean when they talk about “the system”. It’s not some faceless cabal—it’s a spreadsheet somewhere, with a column that says “non-employees doing employee work = bad optics.” It’s the reflexive desire to tidy away anything that doesn’t fit the model. And in doing so, they managed to break the heart of a man who, according to his mother, only ever wanted to contribute—to belong.

Waitrose insists it’s investigating. They issue the usual boilerplate: “We work hard to be an inclusive employer… we partner with charities… we make reasonable adjustments…” All very fine. But if you need a PR statement to convince people you’re kind, you’ve already lost.

A Question of Value

The uncomfortable truth is that Tom Boyd was doing exactly what the supermarket assistant job description says: keeping the shelves full, products in the right place, the aisles tidy. The difference is that he wasn’t getting £12.40 an hour for it. He wasn’t even asking for that—his family said they’d accept two hours a week of paid work. Just something. Recognition. A sense that his contribution mattered.

But Waitrose couldn’t find room for that in the model. Apparently, you can sell “Essential Waitrose” beans at £1.20 but can’t accommodate an autistic man who’s been giving you free labour for years.

The irony is painful. In an age where every corporate press release bangs on about diversity, equity and inclusion, here’s a man who lived the spirit of inclusion far more genuinely than any policy ever could. He didn’t need a “neurodiversity awareness” training session; he needed a job. And the company, instead of seeing an opportunity to make good on its lofty slogans, treated him like a potential liability.

Waitrose isn’t uniquely wicked here. This is modern corporate Britain all over: risk-averse, image-obsessed, allergic to emotion. Somewhere along the way, kindness got corporatised. It’s been turned into a metric, a compliance box. “Inclusion” is a PowerPoint slide. “Compassion” is a campaign hashtag. And when an actual human being like Tom comes along—real, awkward, imperfect—they don’t know what to do with him.

So they hide behind “process”. They quote “policy”. And they convince themselves that they’re doing the right thing because the equality legislation file says so. The result? A man who once found purpose in stacking tins of tomatoes now sits at home, bewildered, while the store he loved continues to peddle organic quinoa and ethical olive oil under the banner of good living.

It didn’t have to be like this. Imagine the alternative headline: “Waitrose creates first supported employment role for man with autism.” Imagine the PR gold. The viral posts. The outpouring of goodwill. A small, practical act of inclusion, instead of the cold bureaucratic one we got.

I used to be associated with the UK’s first new-build dedicated school for children and young adults on the Autism spectrum, so I speak with experience when I say that there was a dozen different ways that Waitrose could have handled this and the way that they have just does not hold a candle to their so-called John Lewis Partnership, ‘partner’ benefits, which does include such things as paid parental leave and support for working families.

They could have given Tom a badge. A payslip. A Christmas card signed by the team. They could have said: “Tom, you’re one of us.” Instead, they told his mum the store was being “cleaned” so he wouldn’t be upset when they sent him away. The cruelty of that euphemism—“cleaned”—is almost Dickensian. It’s the kind of lie you tell a child about a dead pet.

This story touches something deeper than corporate policy. It’s about the meaning of work itself. For many of us, a job isn’t just about money. It’s about structure, community, identity. For someone like Tom, that’s magnified a hundredfold. The act of showing up, being useful, being part of something—that’s dignity. And we’ve built a world where that sort of quiet dignity has no line on the balance sheet.

Frances Boyd’s heartbreak is palpable not because her son was denied pay, but because he was denied belonging. She knows that his “limited language” doesn’t mean limited feeling. She knows how much it mattered to him to have colleagues, a uniform, a role. And she knows that behind the green aprons and organic lemons, there’s a company that forgot what kindness looks like when it isn’t printed on a marketing brochure.

I don’t think Waitrose meant harm. That’s the saddest part. They thought they were doing the “proper thing.” The compliant thing. But doing the proper thing isn’t always doing the right thing. Sometimes decency requires bending a rule, writing a small cheque, taking a risk.

They told The Telegraph: “We are sorry to hear of Tom’s story, and whilst we cannot comment on individual cases, we are investigating as a priority.”

Tom Boyd’s story is a reminder that business isn’t about policies—it’s about people. It’s about the small acts that don’t make the quarterly report but define a company’s soul. Waitrose, for all its premium polish and “inclusive employer” copywriting, has shown us what happens when compassion meets compliance—and compliance wins.

If this is what “doing the right thing” looks like in 2025, maybe we all need to ask whether the moral till’s coming up short.

Read more:
Waitrose’s kindness gap: how a supermarket lost its humanity

It was one of those small domestic moments that tells you everything you need to know about the modern British service industry. I was visiting my parents, both octogenarians, both long past the stage of bothering to shop around for anything,  when an envelope from the AA thudded onto the doormat. My mother opened it with the slight suspicion that all letters now require, only to find the annual renewal notice for their breakdown cover.

“Two hundred and sixty pounds thirty-eight,” she said, frowning at the figure as if it were a medical diagnosis. “Though that’s apparently cheaper than last year – it was £280.25 – and they’ve given us a discount of £107.25.” She seemed reassured, which is precisely how the AA likes it.

Then my eye caught a line in bold type: ‘Thank you for your 64 years of loyalty’.

Sixty-four years! That’s longer than most marriages, and certainly longer than any of the call centre staff at AA Insurance have been alive. My stepfather has been a paying customer since the Beatles were still playing in Hamburg. If loyalty were a virtue the AA truly valued, he’d have a gold card, a free tow truck, and a man in a yellow jacket stationed permanently outside the house.

But no. The letter was a masterpiece of corporate doublespeak – a thank you note wrapped around a quiet mugging. £260.38 for a service that, as it turns out, could be had for a third of the price if you knew where to look.

Being the dutiful son (and, frankly, unable to resist a little consumer sleuthing), I fired up the laptop. Three minutes on the AA’s own website later, I had a quote for exactly the same cover: £97.64. “Introductory offer,” it said. “Full price £162.43.”

So, £97.64 for a new member, or £260.38 for a customer of sixty-four years. You don’t need a degree in behavioural economics to see what’s going on here. The so-called “discount” on the renewal was a magician’s trick: look at this £107 off! – while your wallet quietly disappears.

It’s a swindle dressed in the polite language of British customer service. And my parents, like so many others of their generation, would have paid it. Because that’s what loyal customers do. They trust. They assume that six decades of prompt payment and polite correspondence entitles them to fairness. But in the world of modern subscriptions and annual renewals, loyalty isn’t rewarded, it’s monetised.

The British have always had a sentimental attachment to loyalty. We like to think that staying with the same insurer, bank or utility company means something. It’s a vestige of that post-war mindset where you had your man from the Pru, your chap at the bank, and your account with the AA. You stuck with them and they looked after you.

But that social contract has long since been ripped up. Today, loyalty is treated as a sign of weakness. Companies like the AA rely on inertia,  on the quiet assumption that most customers, especially the elderly, will simply renew whatever number appears on the letter.

Meanwhile, the marketing department pours its energy into wooing the new, the fickle, the flighty, those who’ll take their “introductory discount” for a year, cancel at renewal, and start again under another email address. The whole business model has become a revolving door of introductory offers and loyalty penalties.

It’s not just the AA, of course. Every industry plays the same game. Broadband providers, insurers, even the streaming platforms. The longer you stay, the more you pay. It’s a perverse inversion of what loyalty once meant. It’s like being charged extra for ordering the same pint every night at your local.

What’s really galling is how clever it all is. The renewal letters are written to sound reassuring, trustworthy, a little paternal even. They thank you for your custom, list your “discounts”, and refer vaguely to “enhanced cover” you probably never asked for. They hope you’ll glance at the total, shrug, and write the cheque.

In my parents’ case, it was only luck, or filial nosiness, that stopped them being charged nearly triple what the policy was worth. And there’s something morally wrong about that. It’s one thing to overcharge the inattentive; quite another to quietly exploit a generation that built your business in the first place.

Imagine if the AA sent out a letter saying: “Dear Mr X, as one of our longest-standing members, we’re delighted to offer you the same price we give to new customers.” Now that would be loyalty. But of course, that would mean voluntarily surrendering profit. And in the boardroom logic of today’s Britain, that’s heresy.

There’s a wider moral here for all businesses, especially those that like to boast about their heritage. True loyalty is built on mutual respect, not on tricking your oldest customers into overpaying.

We’re entering an era where trust is the scarcest commodity. Consumers are savvier, angrier, and far less forgiving than they used to be. Social media ensures that one story of a pensioner being overcharged can go viral in hours. And yet, the temptation to milk existing customers remains irresistible – it’s easy revenue, and it rarely makes the news.

But brands that behave this way are mortgaging their reputation for short-term gain. Because once people cotton on, as they inevitably do, the damage is irreversible. Sixty-four years of loyalty can vanish in sixty-four seconds.

In the end, I cancelled my parents’ renewal and signed them up anew. The process took less time than boiling the kettle. My mother was delighted. My stepfather, ever the gentleman, just shook his head. “So much for loyalty,” he said.

Quite. The AA may get them back on the road when the car breaks down, but when it comes to customer loyalty, it’s the company itself that’s stranded on the hard shoulder – hazard lights flashing, engine sputtering, wondering where all its good will went.

We asked the AA for a response and an AA spokesperson said: “Our pricing reflects the service offered. The new member price is discounted, but doesn’t provide the same member benefits.

“We would welcome the chance to talk to this member to look at their renewal and see what they are comparing it to online.” My response to  this, is sorry AA, but it is exactly the same service for exactly three times the cost.

Read more:
The AA’s loyalty problem: sixty-four years and still taken for a ride

Let’s get one thing straight: business is not an Olympic sport. No medals. No referees. No level playing field. It’s not drug-tested either, and you can forget about fair play.

The idea that commerce is some noble amateur pursuit where everyone lines up at the same starting line, toes behind the white paint, and waits for the gun is a comforting delusion. Out here, in the mud and chaos of modern busines, it’s survival of whoever’s got the better kit, the smarter coach, and the secret stash of performance enhancers that no-one else has worked out how to get hold of yet.

And right now, that secret stash is artificial intelligence.

There’s an enduring British fondness for the idea that if you just work hard, play fair, and put in the graft, you’ll win out in the end. Lovely in theory. Utterly laughable in practice. Anyone who’s ever tried to run a small business knows that it’s like trying to sprint uphill through treacle while Amazon and Apple whizz past on hoverboards powered by other people’s data.

The big players have teams of analysts, consultants, and developers all optimising every click, every purchase, every breath their customer takes. They’ve built their own Olympic training camps with altitude tents and nutritionists and shiny machines that make the rest of us look like we’re still using a fax.

And yet – here’s the twist – the gap is closing. Because, for once, the performance-enhancing substance that levels the field isn’t locked behind a corporate paywall. AI is available now, to everyone, and it’s legal, cheap, and astonishingly effective when used properly.

Think of AI not as the 12th man cheering from the sidelines, but as your 10th, 11th, 12th and 20th employee. The one who doesn’t need sleep, doesn’t call in sick, and doesn’t ask for a raise. The one who remembers everything, analyses faster than you can blink, and can spin out content, customer replies, financial models or product ideas while you’re still buttering your toast.

For years, the big breakthroughs were about infrastructure. Cloud computing cut costs and freed small firms from the tyranny of on-premise servers. SaaS platforms eliminated the need for entire IT departments. Suddenly you didn’t need a team of developers in a windowless room just to get a basic CRM running.

But AI? AI is the rocket fuel. The TNT. The caffeine shot to the jugular that lets a small business move like a giant. It’s the difference between a post-war racing car and a modern Formula 1 machine – both technically cars, yes, but one will still be cornering while the other’s already halfway round the next lap.

From Admin Assistant to Strategic Advisor

The beauty of AI is that it scales across everything. A café owner can use it to forecast demand and cut waste, while a marketing agency can generate entire campaign strategies before lunch. The accountant who once spent all night building spreadsheets now gets the same insight in five minutes flat.

And let’s be honest – the notion that AI will “replace” humans is the least interesting thing about it. Of course it will replace the dull bits. The repetitive, life-sucking admin that nobody misses. What matters is what you can do with the time and headspace it gives back.

You can serve customers better. Build faster. Think longer-term. Give a level of service the Dalai Lama would nod approvingly at, because your systems are actually listening to your clients instead of losing their emails in a spam folder.

There’s always a chorus of sceptics who say, “Oh, we’ll see how it pans out.” The same people who thought websites were a fad and email would never replace the fax. They talk about AI “maturing,” as if it’s a wine that’ll be better in five years. Newsflash: the people using it now will have built entirely new business models by the time you’re still swirling your glass and sniffing for notes of oak.

Small businesses that adopt AI today won’t just get more efficient – they’ll become more ambitious. The micro-brewery will start exporting. The artisan shop will go global. The consultant who once handled five clients can now manage fifty, because her virtual assistant is quietly doing the logistics while she focuses on the high-value work.

Of course, someone will object that it’s all a bit unfair – that using AI is like doping. But again, this isn’t sport. There’s no governing body, no World Anti-Doping Agency for the self-employed. Nobody’s taking your gold medal away because you used an algorithm to spot a trend before your rival did.

The ethics here aren’t about “cheating.” They’re about using every tool available to serve your customers, your team, and your sanity better. If your competitors are juicing up on automation, insight, and instant data while you insist on staying pure with spreadsheets and Post-it notes, that’s not moral integrity. That’s self-sabotage.

The great thing about this particular drug is that it rewards curiosity more than cash. You don’t need to be a billionaire to get started. Most AI tools cost less than a round of drinks and deliver a measurable return before you’ve finished the pint. The only barrier is the mindset that says, “This is for someone else.”

Use it to draft. To plan. To analyse. To dream bigger. Test, refine, repeat. The magic isn’t in the machine – it’s in what you do with it. But like any performance enhancer, it only works if you actually take it. Sitting there admiring the vial won’t win you the race.

So stop pretending business is a polite 400-metre jog. It’s a street fight. And if someone offers you a completely legal, side-effect-free, performance-enhanced boost that could turn your scrappy start-up into a medal contender – you’d be mad not to take it.

Because when the dust settles and the doors are blown clean off, the only question that matters will be: did you have the guts to take the shot?

Read more:
Business is not an Olympic sport, so invest today in that performance-enhanced boost

Rumour has it that Rachel Reeves is limbering up for November with a Budget that will make the taxman’s quill squeak like a stuck pig. Property, pensions, profits, pasties — all grist to the Exchequer’s mill.

The Treasury is leaving no stone unturned, no pocket unpicked, no cupboard unopened. The only thing, one suspects, that remains miraculously safe from her fiscal scythe is Larry the Cat’s supper.

Cat food, so far, has escaped. But give it time. If Reeves wakes up one morning and thinks Felix is a luxury good, then Larry may be forced to reacquaint himself with the vermin of Whitehall.

Which would be, let’s face it, the first proper day’s work he’s done in a decade.

The mood music is grimly familiar. Reeves is billed as Britain’s most hawk-eyed chancellor since Gladstone, scrutinising every allowance and relief with the intensity of a headmistress checking pockets for contraband. She talks of “closing loopholes” and “fiscal responsibility”, which translates as: if you earn it, spend it, save it or feed it to your cat, I want a slice. There is a whiff of the Victorian workhouse about the whole thing — the sense that leisure, comfort, and small mercies are indulgences for which the State must extract a fee.

The thought of Larry’s pouch of Sheba being clobbered with 20% VAT is only half a joke. Reeves hasn’t said it. But given the way she’s nosing through the nation’s shopping basket like a customs officer at Dover, it might only be the fact that she’s scared of the animal-loving electorate that keeps Purina safe from the Chancellor’s paw.

Larry, then, becomes the perfect stand-in for the rest of us. He lives in the lap of political luxury, adored, photographed, never held accountable for his failure to deliver on the “mouser” part of his job title. And yet even he is only one Treasury brainstorm away from being told to pull his weight. The day the food bill doubles is the day Larry starts catching mice again.

And so it is with us. Once pampered, now fleeced, the British taxpayer is being nudged towards self-sufficiency by stealth. First you taxed our booze, then our cars, then our pensions, and now our every side-hustle. Tomorrow it will be our pets, the next day our plants, and eventually our patience.

The truly comic element is not that Reeves might be tempted to tax pet food, but that it has come to feel plausible. When a government makes you believe even the moggy’s supper is at risk, you know you’re in the realm of fiscal parody. It’s like imagining air being metered. Please insert £1 to continue breathing.

If Reeves could work out how to slap a duty on belly rubs or a surcharge on purring, you sense she’d do it before breakfast. The only thing stopping her is the optics of being seen to shake down a cat who has a bigger fanbase than most cabinet ministers.

And yet, strip away the feline froth, and the point is clear: this scattergun approach to taxation is not sustainable. You cannot tax your way to prosperity any more than you can slim by raiding the fridge at midnight. What Reeves needs — but seems reluctant to risk — is growth, investment, something genuinely bold. Instead we get a Budget that looks like the frantic contents of a handbag tipped out on the kitchen table: receipts, half-chewed mints, and a few coins scavenged from the lining.

Larry’s food may survive unscathed this time, but the message is unmistakeable: the Treasury has its nose in our cupboards, its paws on our wallets, and its eye on the cat’s dish. Heaven help us when they start eyeing the litter tray.

Read more:
Reeves’ Budget: is Larry’s cat food the last refuge?

While the Conservatives stumble in search of relevance, Nigel Farage’s Reform UK has seized the spotlight as Labour’s true challenger. Forget Kemi Badenoch’s protestations—Keir Starmer’s real battle is against populist fire, not Tory embers.

Let’s be perfectly candid: the serious bits of politics, those that demand formidable talent and intellectual gusto, are beginning to look less like a battle between Labour and the Tories, and more like a punch-up between Sir Keir and Nigel Farage’s Reform. It’s as though our sat-nav of British politics has decided to detour from the predictable “Conservative vs Labour” road and veer dangerously towards “populist clown car vs cautious earnestness”.

According to that stirring Bloomberg opus—let’s call it the canny Adrian Wooldridge dossier—it’s Farage and Reform UK, not whichever Rishi-less rump remains of the Conservatives, who occupy the true mantle of Opposition. And he’s quite right to suggest as much. Labour’s uneasy incumbency doesn’t need a nostalgic Tory defeat so much as it needs something radical—some spark—to truly galvanise. And lo! That spark has arrived in the form of a party that revels in grievance, culture wars, and incendiary sloganeering, wrapped in a Union Jack, and slapped firmly across the headlines.

Now, I’ll confess: I had my doubts. The Tories, apparently toothless though they seem, have had the fare of a timeshare spoon to sage electoral mischief. But the rise of Reform is not a mere fill-in-the-gap phenomenon; it is real opposition. Despite their relative parliamentary modesty, Reform UK have capitalised on summer disquiet and Labour’s taciturn approach to dominating narrative—hardly the mark of a party content with being mere theatre, rather than a serious panto villain.

Let’s not mince words. Labour’s summer motto seems to have been: “If we speak less, we might survive the lighting strike.” Meanwhile, Reform threw itself into our unguarded skies with a barrage of immigration rhetoric, welfare us-against-them framing, and a creeping mastery of the media soundbite  . Populist politics at its, er, most refined.

And yet, forgive me if I bristle when Kemi Badenoch, whispering in between tweets, suggests otherwise. Kemi, dear, pull up a chair. Everyone with a functioning moral compass—and a toe dipped into the latest polling—knows that Reform UK, not your current Conservative ensemble, are Labour’s chief electoral challenge. Polling isn’t speculation; it’s reflection. As The Financial Times and others warn, business leaders are worried Labour might cede political ground unless they reassert themselves swiftly.

There is something deliciously ironic about a party once derided for being a “clown show” now being viewed as the firm bedrock of Opposition. And yet, there it is. Reform’s ascendant narrative means Labour can no longer weaponise nostalgia for the Conservatives. Nor can it lazily allude to “the right-wing” as if it were a hazy abstraction. This isn’t an argument about ideological purity—it’s about electoral reality.

There’s more: Farage’s party has won symbolic victories. A dramatic by-election gain in Runcorn and Helsby overturned a Labour majority that seemed comfortably etched in stone—a mere six-vote margin, mind you, but enough to give boarding-up instructions to Labour HQ. And in local elections, Reform surged ahead, even gaining control of several councils, leaving the Tories gasping for relevance. That’s not just noise—it’s institutional presence.

Now, critics of my little diatribe might argue Reform lacks substance beyond the anguished slogan. They may point to Labour’s campaign for a wealth tax and a more egalitarian metaphorical reframing of national grievances—not to mention the argument, from voices like Polly Toynbee, that reforming electoral systems is Labour’s real legacy in waiting . Or that speaking truth to populism requires elevated ideas rather than shouting back.

Yet the nurse never argues the pain away. When the drizzle turns to rain, you need an umbrella – or in this case, a powerful counter-narrative. And yes, Labour is trying: a cupboard reshuffle here, a communications failure patched there . But it might want to recalibrate from “methodical cautiousness” to “competent ferocity” before Farage has swept Britain into enough local government offices to call himself a shadow Prime Minister.

There’s a final twist in this jolly tale: I suspect Labour might, if all goes disastrously, end up thanking Reform – because nothing sharpens your strategy like an opponent who refuses to be politely ignored, and instead yanks your complacent trousers down in broad daylight.

So Kemi, I recommend you empty your irony-laden snark of “he’s no threat”, toss in the washing machine with some humility, and acknowledge that yes – Farage’s Reform is the real opposition to Starmer, right now. And in politics, real is what matters.

Read more:
Sorry Kemi, but Farage’s Reform is the real opposition to Starmer

I’ve been to Los Angeles many times over the years — for work, for pleasure, and occasionally for that curious hybrid of both that journalists tell their accountants is “business travel”. I’ve always loved the place: the optimism in the air, the palm-lined streets, the sun-washed hills rolling down to the Pacific.

But this time was different. The hills were scorched. The air was acrid. Driving into Altadena, I was met not by the familiar suburban hum but by the sight — and smell — of destruction. Houses gutted. Trees reduced to brittle, blackened bones. A haze that clung to the lungs.

The Altadena fires had not just burned through land. They’d burned through lives. People who had built homes, memories, and futures there now stood in the ash, holding nothing but what they’d managed to carry out in the scramble to safety.

And it wasn’t just the physical damage. It was the mood. Conversations were quieter, eyes heavier. You could feel the shared trauma — the knowledge that the place they loved could, at any moment, be taken again.

I was so moved by what I saw that I did something I rarely do on the road: I stopped, set up my phone, and recorded a short video for the EV Powered YouTube channel. Standing there in the still-smouldering aftermath, I spoke about the urgency of action on climate change. You can watch it here: EV Powered – LA Fires.

And yet, despite the unarguable evidence — the rising temperatures, the worsening storms, the lengthening wildfire seasons — there are still those who stand before cameras and insist that climate change is some elaborate hoax. In the US, Donald Trump has made a sport of it. His casual dismissal of climate science has been a defining theme of his politics, playing to the crowd but abandoning the planet.

It’s a dangerous luxury, this denial. It allows leaders to dodge difficult policy decisions, to swerve the costs of action, to keep the machine humming exactly as it always has. But it comes at the expense of people like those in Altadena, and the farmers in Oxfordshire, and communities everywhere that are already paying the price in floods, droughts, fires, and food shortages.

And climate denial is not confined to the MAGA circuit. In Britain, we too have our own chorus of sceptics — some in the press, some in the pub, and some, regrettably, in positions of real influence, and then there is Reform UK’s very strong opinion on the topic. They cloak themselves in the language of “common sense”, as though ignoring a problem is somehow more practical than solving it.

This is where my LA trip connected in my mind to my previous column on Jeremy Clarkson. Clarkson is no Trump — he’s not campaigning to roll back environmental protections, and he’s done more to educate the public on the realities of farming than any politician I can name. But when he waves away the link between extreme weather and climate change, it feeds the same complacency that lets fires burn hotter, seas rise faster, and communities like Altadena bear the brunt.

Here’s the hard truth: the cost of action is high, but the cost of inaction is ruinous. Businesses know this — supply chains are disrupted by floods, crop yields are hit by droughts, insurance costs soar with every “once-in-a-century” disaster that now happens every other year. Whether you’re running a farm in Chipping Norton or a logistics hub in California, climate change is a line on your P&L whether you acknowledge it or not.

The lesson from Altadena is not simply that wildfires happen. It’s that they are happening more often, more intensely, and in places that didn’t used to burn. And unless we accept the link to our changing climate — and act accordingly — they will keep happening.

Flying home, I thought about the people I’d met there. Not activists, not lobbyists, not political operatives — just residents, trying to rebuild. They don’t have the luxury of debating whether the climate is changing. They are living in the aftermath of the answer.

If there’s one thing the business community can take from this, it’s that leadership means facing reality, even when it’s inconvenient. We can’t keep treating climate change as someone else’s problem, or tomorrow’s problem, or — worst of all — not a problem at all. Because by the time the flames are at your door, it’s too late to deny they’re real.

Read more:
From Altadena to Westminster: climate denial is a luxury we can’t afford

Oh, Jeremy. We all adore him, the pompous baritone, the deadpan wit, and that slightly feral Yorkshire charm. Plus the man who taught the world that farming wasn’t just admiration-worthy, it was uncomfortably gruelling.

Clarkson’s Farm splendidly ripped back the curtain on rural toil, reminding us that to put food on the table is to wrestle with mud, weather tantrums, bureaucracy, and occasionally a minuscule orchestra of pigs. It is delightful and infuriating, and undeniably educational.

But—and there’s always a but—when Clarkson waves away the weather troubles as unrelated to climate change, I’m forced to clutch my tea and think: “Oh, come on now.”

Let’s be clear: one can love Clarkson for his comedic misadventures, his honest fascination with arable reality, and his big, bonkers personality, while still scolding him for what borders on wilful denial.

His unwavering dismissal of any connection between extreme weather and climate change—particularly when crops are drowning one minute and the next cooking under an unprecedented heatwave—is frankly bonkers. The phrase “it’s just weather, why make a fuss?” might work as a gag on Top Gear, but in the muddied fields of Diddly Squat, it’s an unforgivable dodge.

Clarkson’s Farm is, in reality, a gift to public understanding. It’s the sort of documentary that has converted metropolitan pesticide-phobes into defunct-subsidy ponderers and brake-lights watchers into early risers gauging rainfall. It is the most unfiltered, unpretentiously riveting showcase of British farming there is, and for that, Clarkson deserves not just applause, but maybe a medal—or at least a free pint at his pub, The Farmer’s Dog.

The very idea that he sneers at climate change while simultaneously portraying its effects—and then blithely disconnects them—feels, to put it politely, like telling the vicar to stop worrying about sermons because “it’s just words.”

To be fair, Clarkson seems, in recent times, to have eased off. In a surprise u-turn, he’s admitted that shrugging off global warming was part of an exaggerated persona—“a joke” staged for shock value—rather than a deeply held conviction  . If this is indeed the case, bravo for the epiphany. Farming, as he’s now well aware, is not a sitcom; it’s a power‑soaked education in geology and long-term planning, where weather isn’t seasonal angst—it’s existential risk.

And what a year on Diddly Squat it’s been. A TB outbreak, a harvest that’s been nothing short of catastrophic, and the dramatic failure of some 400,000 beetroot seeds—of which two grew—sound like satire, but they’re the grim reality of natural volatility and mounting climate stress.

Add in the revelation that most farms don’t make a profit, that many farmers work moment to moment, reinvesting every pound to stay afloat—often without even making their own wage—and it’s clear: this is about more than crumbling onions and drowned seeds  .

Clarkson might well argue that the sleuthing of journalists or politicians can’t match the visceral awareness born of daily farm life. And he’s quite right. There’s no carbon calculator or policy paper that will ever tell the story of a flooded field with the same visceral punch as an old bloke in a hi‑viz jacket stomping through mud, grumbling about yet more rain when everything’s already sodden. That’s television—no, that’s modern life—made palpable.

But ignoring the link between that “funny farm weather” and our shared, warming planet is, to borrow Clarkson’s own language, “a fucking nightmare”  . The struggle between farms and climate isn’t a coincidence—it’s systemic. Clarkson’s willingness to stare that truth down, with that same blunt honesty he brings to power harvester misfires, would elevate Clarkson’s Farm from great television to essential cultural reckoning.

So here’s my toast to Jeremy: May you continue to farm with furious passion and accidental finesse. But if you’re going to nudge climate change off the podium with a flippant shove, you’ll have to parry the feral glare of every farmer—and pretty much every sane viewer—who knows the weather isn’t just a performance. It’s a warning.

Read more:
Why Clarkson’s Farm should tackle climate change – before the business of farming crumbles

The cancellation of The Late Show with Stephen Colbert is not, as CBS executives would desperately like us to believe, a “purely financial decision.” It is, quite transparently, the ceremonial sacrifice of satire on the altar of political appeasement and corporate consolidation.

Yes, late-night ratings have slipped. Yes, ad revenue is tighter than an intern’s skinny jeans at a Soho House party. But let’s not pretend Colbert was dead wood. His was the highest-rated late-night show in its slot. Emmy-winning. Critically lauded. Socially vital. And very much still watched — I know, because I watch it religiously. Not sure I’ve missed an episode in over a year. Hell, I even went to a taping the last time I was in New York.

In a year when American networks have spent billions on bloated reboots no one asked for and IP cash-ins so lazy they make Love Island look like Shakespeare, we’re supposed to believe that the network couldn’t find the budget for one of the most popular talk shows on American television?

No. That’s not how this works. That’s not how any of this works.

What happened?

Paramount, CBS’s parent company, was trying to finalise a merger with Skydance Media. But the Federal Communications Commission, chaired by a Trump appointee, had the deal under review. A spurious Trump lawsuit against CBS was hanging over everything like a fart in a lift. So they paid up. $16 million to the president and, coincidentally, soon-to-be-founder of the Trump Presidential Library & Golf Superstore. The lawsuit was laughable — claiming a 60 Minutes interview with Kamala Harris had been maliciously edited. Spoiler: it hadn’t. But CBS paid anyway.

That’s not metaphor. That’s the scent of compromise disguised as corporate prudence. Trump wanted money. The FCC, chaired by Trump’s man Brendan Carr, was delaying Paramount’s merger with Skydance Media. And then, as if by magic, a deal was struck, the FCC smiled, and Colbert — that cheeky, persistent thorn in the Trumpian posterior — was told he’d be off the air come May.

How wonderfully coincidental.

And Donald, never one to let subtlety get in the way of smugness, took to his rickety digital pulpit on Truth Social:

“I absolutely love that Colbert got fired. His talent was even less than his ratings.”

“I hear Jimmy Kimmel is next. Has even less talent than Colbert!”

He wasn’t done.

“Greg Gutfeld is better than all of them combined, including the Moron on NBC who ruined the once great Tonight Show,” referring to Jimmy Fallon, who must be nervously counting down his own commercial breaks now.

The president of the United States is openly celebrating the removal of his political critics from network television. No nuance, no shame. Just straight-up banana republic behaviour. And CBS is letting it happen.

Colbert himself saw it coming. Three days before CBS dropped the axe, he went after the $16 million settlement live on air. “As someone who has always been a proud employee of this network, I am offended,” he said. “I don’t know if anything – anything – will repair my trust in this company. But, just taking a stab at it, I’d say $16m would help.”

The crowd laughed. CBS board members did not.

Senators Elizabeth Warren and Bernie Sanders weren’t laughing either. Warren posted, “CBS canceled Colbert’s show just THREE DAYS after Colbert called out CBS parent company Paramount for its $16M settlement with Trump – a deal that looks like bribery.” Sanders was blunter: “Do I think this is a coincidence? NO.”

Let’s not forget, satire has always been uncomfortable — it’s meant to be. But in Britain, we understand that discomfort was part of a healthy democracy.

Did Margaret Thatcher, no fan of dissent, ever phone the BBC and demand that Ben Elton be pulled off the air for his relentless “Mrs Thatch” tirades on Friday Night Live? No. She rolled her eyes and got on with it.

Did John Major ask for Spitting Image to melt down his dead-eyed puppet with the greying underpants? No. He probably winced, but understood that being lampooned is part of the job. If you can’t take a latex satire to the chin, you’re in the wrong line of work.

But Trump? Trump doesn’t do satire. He doesn’t even do irony. His skin is thinner than a Ryanair seat cushion and twice as easy to tear. And so, rather than rolling with the punches, he’s throwing elbows — at networks, at comedians, at newspapers, at anyone who doesn’t flatter his ego.

And with Colbert off-air, who’s next?

This isn’t just the end of a show. This is the end of an era. Colbert didn’t just fill a chair behind a desk — he held a mirror to power, to hypocrisy, to puffed-up politics and the empty suits who manipulate them. He took the absurd and made it art. He made you laugh while making you think, which is increasingly dangerous currency in a world dominated by clickbait, culture wars, and billionaires with fragile egos.

Colbert began in satire — not the fluffy late-night banter of falling asleep with Fallon but the hard stuff: The Colbert Report, his creation of a right-wing pundit who was somehow more believable than the real ones. He gave us “truthiness” before we knew how badly we’d need it. And when he moved to The Late Show, he didn’t neuter himself — he sharpened the blade.

So yes, this is personal. Not just for the 200 staffers soon out of a job. Not just for viewers like me, who tuned in for comfort and clarity and cleverness. But for anyone who still believes journalism — in whatever format — should punch up, not shut up.

What’s next? More of Trump’s wish list being fulfilled under the guise of economic restructuring? Will Jon Stewart be next for the guillotine? (“Shameful,” he said of the settlement.) Will NPR be shuttered because Trump doesn’t like vowels?

And now, as the stage lights dim and the applause fades, the future of satire feels uncertain.

Or does it?

Because while the suits in broadcast boardrooms pretend this is about balance sheets, over on YouTube — where the only approval required is a “Like” button — audiences are flocking. In fact, someone else has already made the leap: Piers Morgan, that perennial marmite of British broadcasting, has quietly – well it was a quiet as Morgan gets – shifted his Uncensored show from linear TV to YouTube, where it reaches more people, with less interference, and no need to pander to a regulator or advertiser with cold feet.

It’s ironic, isn’t it? Trump — the man who cut his teeth on reality TV, who turned CNN into a hate-watch for the MAGA faithful — may have just accelerated the future of television. By bullying broadcasters into silence, he’s made online freedom more attractive, more necessary.

Late-night satire might be dying on CBS, but it’s thriving elsewhere. Jon Stewart. Hasan Minhaj. Sarah Cooper. Even amateur YouTubers with a microphone and a sense of decency are picking up the mantle. The audience hasn’t disappeared — it’s migrated.

So maybe The Late Show is ending. But the idea of the late show — the honest, punch-up political comedy show — might just be evolving.

And as for Colbert? Don’t bet against him. The man once played a right-wing pundit in character for nine years without breaking once. He’s not afraid of a fight. He’s just lost his stage. For now.

So here’s my suggestion, Mr Colbert: light up a YouTube channel, Dust off all the covid-era tech. Call it The Even Later Show. Stream it straight from your living room. No censors. No FCC. No overlords with shareholder nerves. Just you, your writers, your desk — and your audience, who are very much still here, very much still watching. Plus if Morgan is believed you might even earn more!

And this time, the only cancellation that matters is the one your subscribers can control.

Read more:
Colbert gets cancelled – and with him, satire itself

Labour should be worried. That’s not to sound like a gurning tabloid—we’re better than that—but the early signs are far from reassuring.

Since April, when the non‑dom knockouts arrived and Chancellor Rachel Reeves scrapped the centuries‑old offshore loopholes, stories have been piling up: wealthy directors departing, shell‑companies relocating, ultra‑rich heirs re‑domiciling elsewhere. A Financial Times investigation found that nearly a third of non‑dom clients are now decamping to UAE, Italy or Switzerland. Henley & Partners has predicted a loss of 16,500 millionaires this year alone—evacuating around $92 billion in investable assets.

That’s the headline. But is it the full story? Dozens will always shuffle off, and some early sell‑offs were likely opportunistic, triggered by panic‑selling in overheated London markets. Indeed, in 2017 when Osborne tightened non‑dom rules, there was a spike—but by 2019 emigration had fallen back below pre‑reform levels. That suggests the real economic damage comes not from those who’ve bolted already, but from those still sitting on the fence, ready to skedaddle at the next tax trumpet.

So, what might Rachel Reeves do? Reports suggest she’s already reconsidering charging inheritance tax on offshore holdings after ten years of residence—the element deemed most punitive. Expect softening. The Treasury is apparently exploring “tweaks without backtracking” to stem capital flight. In plain English: make it slightly less unpalatable, so the bleats from Mayfair aren’t quite so loud.

One might say: why worry about millionaires offloading handbags and primary residences when ordinary UK voters are left draped in austerity? The hard truth is that non‑doms aren’t merely sitting ducks; many are significant investors, philanthropists and employers. Some weigh in with a hefty £400,000 annually in tax contributions and average asset investment of £118 million. The FT warned that a mass exodus could burn a hole in public finances and shutter growth strategies  .

That said, losing a tranche of “wealth parkers”—those who simply stash foreign money in London—might be a blessing. New Statesman’s Will Dunn points out that many non‑doms contribute little in economic substance; they can afford swanky flats but don’t generate domestic employment. Their departure could, perversely, free up homes for productive buyers and ease the supply bottleneck—an upside indeed.

Labour’s dilemma is this: it promised fairness (“those with the broadest shoulders…” etc.) and scrapping non‑dom was a powerful symbol. But symbols aren’t budgets. If the revenue is illusory—if exits exceed estimates and the tax base shrinks—this tightrope act looks reckless. The Office for Budget Responsibility’s projected £33.8 billion revenue gain over five years could quickly unravel  . Worse still, if wealthy high‑flyers vanish, office windows darken, venture capital freezes and the party is left with empty coffers and failing pledges.

Reeves now faces pressure on two fronts: to stand firm and close loopholes, and to not frighten capital. Early indicators suggest she’ll settle somewhere in between—curtail non‑doms in principle, soften key elements in practice. That may mollify non‑doms enough to stay, yet to Labour’s own base it will look like a climb‑down. And paralysis is worse than policy—because inaction portends shrinking receipts and yet more austerity.

So how worried should Labour be? Quite. Even if a full‑scale exodus doesn’t come to pass, the uncertainty, headline scares and wavering reforms haven’t been kind. And against that backdrop, whispers of a wealth tax—on assets over £10 million at two per cent—only add fuel to the flight fantasy  .

Perhaps the answer is not simply hammering the wealthy, but offering carrots: adjustment periods, phased implementation, exit taxes, residence bonds. A meaningful immigration route linked to investment, as others have suggested. But this requires imagination—and a sense that Labour is still in the game.

In short: Labour should worry, but not panic. Instead of reversing, they must recalibrate. The non‑dom rebellion isn’t a political crisis unless treated as one—by shutting down the exodus without sacrificing the underlying principle of a fairer tax system. Reassurance, clarity and nuance are key—anything less invites both rich people and public trust to take flight.

Read more:
Flight of the non-doms: how worried should Labour be about the super‑rich leaving the UK?

It says a lot about the state of modern music that the most hyped tour of 2025 is led by a band who last made a decent album when Blair was still in Downing Street.

Oasis have reunited for a £100 million world tour that sold out faster that you could say “Don’t Look Back in Anger”, then there is Sting, a man who’s now into his seventies, still touring the world with more grace than most 30-year-olds can muster after a pub lunch, and you’ve got to ask: where are the next generation of greats?

Not just stars, you understand. We’ve got plenty of those—shiny, streaming-friendly, hashtag-driven stars who can dance, duet, and disappear in under a year. I mean artists. Icons. People you’ll still be playing when your hair’s gone grey and the Bluetooth speaker has replaced the record player. Because when you look at the current Top 40, what you see is a conveyor belt of catchy choruses with the shelf life of supermarket sushi.

Now, I should declare my bias. I’m a lifelong lover of jazz. Proper, vinyl-scratched, soul-drenched jazz. And much of that passion, I owe to one man: Robert Elms. For years, his midday show on BBC Radio London has been my cultural North Star. To most black-cab drivers, he is London. “Mr London,” they call him, and rightly so. The man practically soundtracked the capital’s soul.

He was the first to champion artists like Amy Winehouse and Jamiroquai, long before record execs were convinced the public had the stomach for them. And yes, he’s the same man credited with coining the name Spandau Ballet, a band whose best suits and worst haircuts are permanently stitched into the fabric of the ‘80s. But as traditional radio listening dwindles—particularly among younger audiences—we’re losing the gatekeepers, the tastemakers, the people who could spot a genius in a smoky bar and get them on the air the next morning. No TikTok algorithm can do that.

This lack of long-term thinking is the rot at the heart of today’s music machine. Labels now chase virality over vision. Artists aren’t nurtured—they’re churned. We’ve moved from careers to campaigns. And while that might boost short-term streams, it doesn’t make legends.

Of course, there are flickers of hope. Eddie Piller, the man behind Acid Jazz Records, remains a keeper of the flame. He discovered and launched Jamiroquai, a band that brought style and soul to the mainstream when it badly needed both. Now he’s championing Nick Corbin, back with New Street Adventure.

I genuinely think that Corbin is a rare talent in today’s landscape—honest songwriting, velvet vocals, and a live show that actually means something. If the world were fair, he’d be headlining Glastonbury. Instead, you’ll find him on stage at 9.30pm, somewhere in Camden, for £12 a ticket and a pint in a plastic cup.

And what of the others? Olly Murs, that affable X Factor graduate, is still clapping along, still charming daytime TV audiences and provincial arenas. Sam Fender, the critics’ pick to inherit the Springsteen mantle, is perhaps the best bet we’ve got—a gritty voice, big choruses, and lyrics that occasionally rise above the pub-poster politics. But will he be doing this in 30 years? Will his songs still soundtrack weddings, break-ups and boozy karaoke sessions? Too early to say.

The truth is, we’re living in a music culture of disposability. The Top 40 albums of 2025—according to the Official Charts Company—are filled with names who, talented as they may be, feel fleeting. Tracks are written for clips, not for concerts. Verses are designed to land on social media before they land on stage. And with attention spans now shorter than the average bass solo, we’ve trained audiences to swipe, not stay.

What we’re really missing is longevity. The kind that used to be cultivated through gigs, independent radio, late-night TV performances, and—yes—passionate presenters like Robert Elms. He played the songs no one else would. He had the ear to hear brilliance before it charted. Now, with legacy media being strangled by cuts and algorithms, we’re watching that entire ecosystem fade away.

And as it fades, so too does the route for new talent. Without the Elmses of the world, how many future Amy Winehouses or Jamiroquais are we losing to the scroll?

So yes, I’ll be at the Oasis tour, with the overpriced merch and a tear in my eye when the first chorus of “Live Forever” kicks in. And yes, I’ll admire Sting’s stamina as he glides across the stage like a tantric Peter Pan. But I’ll also be wondering: when today’s headliners hang up their guitars and holograms take their place, who will be left with the weight, the artistry, and the staying power to replace them?

Read more:
Where is the music industry going?

You’ll hear a lot of nonsense these days about “British jobs for British people”, as though talent stops at Dover and genius requires a passport. I’m here to tell you—rhetorically, floridly, perhaps even provocatively—that if we carry on down that road, the only thing we’ll be exporting is our future.

Because here’s the cold, unapologetic truth: some of the best companies in Britain right now weren’t started by blokes from Bromley or lasses from Loughborough. They were built—boldly, brilliantly—by immigrants. Entrepreneurs who came here with no old-school tie, no Oxford college affiliation, no seat at the Garrick. Just vision, stamina, and a burning need to build something better.

Take Revolut, the digital bank that made high-street banking look like dial-up internet. Started by Nikolay Storonsky (pictured), born in Russia and schooled in physics and hustle, Revolut tore through the crusty layers of traditional finance like a chainsaw through suet. Or Monzo—built with help from a multicultural team whose mission wasn’t British tradition, but global innovation.

Then there’s ElevenLabs, the AI voice tech company that’s gone from zero to warp speed in less time than it takes HMRC to answer a phone call. Co-founded by Piotr Dąbkowski, who’s Polish, and Mati Staniszewski, who is—whisper it—also not from Guildford. They’re building the future of media from a country still arguing about Radio 4.

And Synthesia. God bless it. A startup so cool, even the Americans are jealous. An AI video platform used by companies all over the world—led by a team of immigrant founders whose collective ambition makes the Houses of Parliament look like a village fête. They didn’t come here for the weather or the late trains. They came here to build something. And thank God they did.

Now, imagine for a moment if we’d told them all to bugger off at passport control. “Sorry mate, can’t let you in. We’ve got a lad in Swindon with a Raspberry Pi and a dream.” Ludicrous, right? But that’s the direction we’re drifting in. A little more visa red tape here, a little more rhetoric about “taking back control” there—and suddenly, the UK becomes a nation of heritage rather than a hub of invention.

I’m not saying British-born entrepreneurs don’t deserve praise. They do— many of them are sensational. But if we want to build a truly great entrepreneurial economy, it’s not about geography. It’s about gravity. The UK must become a gravitational centre for the best minds in the world. The brightest thinkers. The hungriest founders. The wildest dreamers. Not just the ones born within the sound of Bow Bells.

We don’t win by narrowing the gate. We win by making the UK the best bloody place on Earth to start a company. That means generous and intelligent visa schemes. That means startup tax incentives with real teeth. That means investment channels that don’t require your uncle to be in the House of Lords. And it means—crucially—a culture that doesn’t sneer at ambition or treat innovation like an awkward dinner guest.

If you ask me, the Home Office ought to be handing out platinum-tier welcome packs at Heathrow. “Welcome to Britain, here’s your Innovator Visa, a coffee, and directions to the nearest co-working space.” Let’s treat entrepreneurs the way we treat Premier League footballers: as indispensable imports that raise the whole game.

Instead, we get Nigel-from-Twitter banging on about “taking our country back”, while the most talented people on the planet quietly buy one-way tickets to Berlin, Austin, or Dubai.

Do you know what makes Silicon Valley what it is? Not just code and venture capital. It’s the constant influx of people who don’t give a monkey’s about status quo. People with accents, ambition, and absolutely no sense of when to quit. Sound familiar? It should. That’s the same spirit that built the UK’s best startups.

And yet, for all our history of trade and talent, empire and enterprise, we now seem more interested in walling ourselves off than inviting brilliance in. It’s short-sighted, self-defeating, and stupid. Like unplugging your router because the internet’s “a bit foreign”.

The truth is, we’re in a global arms race for innovation. AI, biotech, climate tech—it’s all moving at warp speed. If we want to be in the room where it happens, we need to open the door.

And no, this isn’t about immigration versus opportunity. It’s about immigration as opportunity. About recognising that talent is our last competitive advantage in a world where supply chains are broken, politics is polarised, and interest rates are doing the Hokey Cokey.

So let’s be bold. Let’s be a magnet for ambition. Let’s stop pretending that greatness wears a particular passport and start building a Britain that says to every global innovator: “Yes. Here. Now.”

Because if we don’t, the Revoluts and ElevenLabs of the future won’t be British. They’ll be Belgian. Or Balinese. Or based in Boston.

And we’ll be left here, proud and poor, wondering why all our best ideas now come with a return address in Zurich.

Read more:
We must make Britain the best place to build companies for the world’s best talent

I’m all for a bit of back-patting. Especially when it’s well deserved, and even more so when the hand doing the patting is someone else’s.

So when Press Gazette – the hallowed trade rag of media geeks and PR doyennes – recently ran a lovely write-up on the growth of Capital Business Media, I was delighted. Beaming, in fact. There’s something satisfying about seeing your company’s hard graft recognised in print (or pixels), nestled among the news of who’s made substantial redundancies, who’s pivoted, and who’s just hired a former TikTok influencer as their new head of strategy.

But then came the kicker. The buzzkill. The frustrating, fingers-on-a-blackboard twist in the tale: the piece was behind a paywall.

Now, I get it. Journalism isn’t free. Reporters need to be paid. Publishers need to keep the lights on. And websites – even the ones with clunky UX and a cookie banner the size of a duvet – need revenue. But when your shiny new bit of PR, lovingly pitched, massaged, and nudged into a slot by your PR team, is suddenly visible to… well, about 37 subscribers and a bloke named Colin who still has an RSS reader… it all feels a bit, well, pointless.

The actual growth that the Press Gazette piece on Capital Business Media was talking about came about directly because we do not use paywall’s – and never will –  on any of our websites, and Press Gazette could most probably make themselves more revenue but not using one.

Because PR – real, strategic, value-generating PR – is about more than egos. Or at least, it should be. It’s about reach. Visibility. Shaping the conversation. A great media hit should do more than sit on your mum’s fridge door. It should drive traffic, get people Googling you, earn you a bit more swagger in the pitch meeting.

But when it’s locked behind the “Subscribe now for £14.99 a month (or £149.99 a year)” barricade, the value begins to erode. Not immediately, and not always fatally, but in a death-by-a-thousand-clicks sort of way. The headline teases. The intro loads. Then—bam. The wall comes down like a guillotine. And the potential impact? It vanishes into the digital void.

And this isn’t just me having a sulk because my feature couldn’t be screen-grabbed and paraded across LinkedIn like a new baby photo. This is a broader issue facing the entire PR industry. If the holy grail of coverage – the big-name title, the high-profile platform – can only be seen by those who already live and breathe media, then what’s the real ROI for the client?

Will businesses keep paying four or five figures a month to get coverage they can’t properly leverage? Will CMOs sign off on budgets to secure placements in titles their customers, partners, and stakeholders can’t even read without creating yet another login and parting with a tenner?

There’s an uncomfortable truth here. One that PR firms – especially the big, glossy ones with exposed-brick offices and scented reception desks – might not want to admit: the value of PR is increasingly in visibility, not just placement. And visibility, in a post-paywall world, is getting harder to quantify.

As a company we come at media ownership at a slight different angle to others, as I used to be a partner in a highly successful Cardiff based PR company and we are in the process of launching a new digital coverage company The Content Crafting Company and the entire premiss will be to work with non-paywall media outlets.

Yes, there’s still cachet in a Financial Times mention. A Times write-up can still lend serious clout. But if your audience is entrepreneurs, SMEs, or anyone under 35 who thinks paying for news is a crime against the internet, then your impact is limited.

We live in an age where LinkedIn posts, podcast appearances, and cheeky YouTube shorts get more engagement than some magazine articles. I’ve seen company founders go viral with a single raw, self-shot iPhone video explaining their mission – reaching more eyeballs than a full-page spread in a national broadsheet could ever hope to.

That’s not to say traditional media is dead. Far from it. But the model is creaking. It’s not built for the distribution-hungry, scroll-happy, SEO-driven landscape we now operate in. And PR firms, frankly, need to adapt. Because clients are starting to ask better questions. Not just “Can you get us in The Guardian?” but “How many people will see it? How many will click? Can we share it freely? Will it help with our Google ranking?”

If the answer to all those is “no”, or “only if they pay for the privilege”, then PR – the good kind, the strategic kind – needs to find new ways of proving its worth. That might mean a shift towards owned media. Thought leadership. Influencer outreach. Or yes, even paying to boost your own press coverage on social.

I’m not here to slate paywalls. They’re a necessary evil in a world where journalism has been gutted by ad models, clickbait, and social media giants. But let’s not pretend they don’t complicate the picture for PR.

As for that Press Gazette article? It was nice. It was flattering. It was a professional moment of pride. But when I tried to share it with a potential client and he replied, “Mate, I’d love to read it but I’m not subscribing just to see your face”, I had to laugh.

Because if a brilliant bit of coverage falls in the forest, and no one’s there to click on it – did it ever really happen?

Read more:
Yes, it’s great to get PR coverage – until it’s locked behind a bloody paywall

The thing about Rachel Reeves—apart from the ironed hair, the thousand-yard stare and the curious knack for speaking in spreadsheets—is that for someone who claims to be building economic stability, she’s remarkably good at causing chaos.

The sort of chaos that isn’t loud and fast and wrapped in flashing lights, but a slow, calculated, exchequer-shaped car crash. With every tax tweak and fiscal fiddle, the Chancellor seems less like a guardian of growth and more like a reverse Robin Hood—robbing not the rich to feed the poor, but hammering the hopeful to satisfy the ideological.

Let’s start with the millionaires, because of course we should. They’re the villains in the modern morality play, aren’t they? The hedge-funders, the tech bros, the Notting Hill set with unearned six-packs and actual pensions. But here’s the thing: they’ve gone. Vanished. Left faster than a party donor in a non-disclosure scandal. Spain, Portugal, the UAE—take your pick. Anywhere with sunshine and fewer punitive taxes on the fruits of your own bloody graft.

Capital gains? Hiked. Dividend taxes? Squeezed. Non-dom status? Dead. You can feel Rachel’s satisfaction radiating from the red dispatch box—“Look, I’ve made the system fair!” But fair to whom, exactly? Not to the rest of us who rely on those millionaires for investment, for job creation, for risk capital. You can’t build a booming economy while running a “For Sale: One Prosperous Nation, Owner Fled” sign in the City.

And then there’s the private school VAT debacle, a policy so proudly self-sabotaging you’d think it was dreamed up during a particularly long wait on hold with HMRC. Because nothing says “levelling up” like adding 20 per cent to school fees, causing a mass exodus from the independent sector and dumping thousands of bewildered middle-class children into a state system that can’t afford to mend the loos, let alone fund a Latin department.

We’re now in a situation where overstretched comprehensives—already juggling teacher shortages, dilapidated buildings and half-a-dozen TikTok-inspired behavioural epidemics—are being asked to accommodate pupils who were doing fine where they were. Because their parents, often two-job families scraping everything to give their kids a chance, suddenly can’t make the numbers work. So in one fell swoop, Reeves has created more pressure on state education and ensured that the very notion of aspiration has been subject to VAT.

And let’s not forget the little guys. The small businesses, the freelancers, the self-employed who, in the dreams of policy wonks, are seen as plucky start-ups in Shoreditch lofts, but in reality are your plumber, your dog groomer, your mum’s mobile nail technician. These people don’t have tax loopholes or offshore accounts. They don’t “max out their ISA” or play currency arbitrage on a second screen. They just want to make a living. And now, thanks to Reeves’s drive to close “the tax gap,” they are treated with the same suspicion as a Russian oligarch buying a Belgravia townhouse in crypto.

Every “crackdown” on self-employment, every tightening of IR35, every demand for real-time tax data is a signal: you are not to be trusted. And who gets hurt? Not the CEOs, not the multinationals with lawyers by the dozen. It’s the part-time bookkeeper in Bolton, the roofer in Romford, the events planner in Epsom. All of whom are now expected to carry the burden of fiscal fairness while HMRC plays hide-and-seek with the people who owe actual millions.

It’s one thing to talk about redistribution. It’s quite another to perform an economic exorcism on the country’s productive classes. Reeves doesn’t seem to realise that prosperity isn’t a finite pie to slice ever more thinly, but a delicate ecosystem. You scare off the high earners, overtax the employers, kneecap the educational ladder and shackle the self-employed, and you’re not left with equality. You’re left with inertia.

The Labour line is that all of this is necessary. A little pain now for stability later. But the pain always seems to be in the same place. It’s never Whitehall. Never the unions. Never the quangos or the consultants or the eye-wateringly wasteful procurement contracts. No. It’s families. Workers. People who run corner shops and send their kids to modest private schools because the local comp has had five headteachers in four years and is best known for a viral video involving a hamster and a Bunsen burner.

The tragedy of Reeves’s approach is not that it’s radical—it’s that it’s regressive. A kind of fiscal performatism designed more to tick boxes in a Guardian editorial than to encourage the next generation of wealth creators. She’s playing to the crowd, but the crowd isn’t watching. It’s working, or emigrating, or wondering if it’s time to switch the business to Dubai and homeschool on Zoom.

There was a moment, not long ago, when Labour could have genuinely claimed to be the party of the working ambitious. Of the kid from Leeds who wanted to start a coffee chain or build an app. But now? Now they look like the party of “No.” No to incentives. No to innovation. No to keeping what you earn. A party suspicious of success and hostile to the ladders that help you get there.

Every Chancellor has to make tough decisions. But Reeves has confused toughness with punishment, and prudence with paranoia. With every tax, she’s not just balancing the books. She’s burning the blueprint for growth. And once you’ve lost that, no amount of fiscal rules will bring it back.

Read more:
With every tax, Rachel Reeves does more damage

It started, as all great things do these days, with a streaming binge. Somewhere between insomnia, jet lag, nostalgia, and a desperate need for a bit of idealism in a very unideal world, I found myself rewatching The West Wing, and then The Newsroom. And then bits of A Few Good Men, The Social Network, even that short-lived, overambitious love letter to television, Studio 60, having watched a taping of The Late Show with Stephen Colbert in New York.

Before I knew it, I was deep in the Sorkinverse — half-preaching the Bartlet doctrine to Bruno the Spaniel,  and half-wondering why no one in real life ever has an epiphany at 90 miles an hour over a White House staircase.

And it hit me — the reason these monologues still rattle in my skull, the reason I rewind them like old C90’s, is the same reason I return, time and time again, to Shakespeare.

Because in their own utterly different, perfectly precise ways, both Aaron Sorkin and William Shakespeare do the same thing: they put the human soul on a stage, hand it a mic, and let it speak until the walls shake.

That’s why I’m writing this. Not as a TV critic or a frustrated playwright, but as someone who genuinely believes Sorkin is the Bard of our times — swapping swords for subpoenas, and soliloquies for Senate smacks.

Now, I can already hear the English professors howling into their quills. “Sorkin? That caffeinated chatterbox with a West Wing fetish?” Yes. Him. The king of walk-and-talk. The maestro of monologue. The man who gave us Jack Nicholson’s “You can’t handle the truth!” and Jeff Daniels’ brutal verbal exorcism of American exceptionalism in The Newsroom. Say what you like, but the man writes.

And crucially, like Shakespeare, Sorkin has given us characters that don’t just talk — they testify.

Shakespeare had Hamlet’s “To be or not to be,” Macbeth’s “Is this a dagger?” and Lear’s primal wails on the heath. Sorkin has Colonel Jessup, finger jabbing at the bench, roaring, “You want me on that wall!” He has President Bartlet standing alone in the National Cathedral, soaked to the skin, screaming in Latin at God. He has Zuckerberg, stone-faced across a conference table, delivering one of the iciest put-downs in legal history: “If you guys were the inventors of Facebook, you’d have invented Facebook.”

I mean, come on.

If Shakespeare was the master of poetic introspection, Sorkin is the laureate of caffeinated conviction. His soliloquies aren’t whispered into the void. They’re blasted across courtrooms, newsrooms, and corridors of power. They don’t just ponder mortality or fate — they punch bureaucracy in the face, then drop the mic and stride off with perfect posture and a billowing trench coat.

Take The Newsroom. The pilot opens with what can only be described as an intellectual ambush. Jeff Daniels, wearing the haggard face of a man who’s read too many poll results and seen too many idiots on Twitter, lets rip with a monologue so sharp it practically perforates the American flag.

“We stood up for what was right… we reached for the stars… we aspired to intelligence…”

It’s Shakespeare’s Julius Caesar crossed with The Economist. And it’s bloody brilliant.

Then there’s President Bartlet in The West Wing, grieving the death of his secretary Mrs Landingham — a woman who had, let’s be honest, more moral compass than half his Cabinet — and taking on God Himself in a deserted cathedral. The lighting is gothic, the rain torrential, and the president is pissed.

“You’re a son of a bitch, you know that?”

You don’t get that in Love’s Labour’s Lost.

And that’s the thing. Sorkin, like Shakespeare, understands that the most important theatre isn’t always in palaces or parliaments — it’s in the hearts of flawed, furious people trying to do the right thing while the world insists otherwise.

He gives us characters who burn with purpose. Sam Seaborn, the quixotic speechwriter, practically combusts with idealism every time he opens his mouth. In one episode, he blurts out:

“Education is the silver bullet. We don’t need little changes, we need monumental ones.”

He’s like Henry V, if Henry had access to a Princeton debate team and a MacBook Pro.

Of course, Shakespeare had his flaws. Longwindedness, for one. (Seriously, Bill, just get to the stabbing.) And Sorkin? Well, he has his. The verbal pyrotechnics can occasionally tip into theatrical gymnastics. The characters all sound a bit… Sorkiny. Like they’ve all gone to the same Ivy League dinner party and decided never to leave.

But even that sameness has its purpose. Sorkin doesn’t write people so much as he writes ideas wrapped in hair and tailored suits. And just like the Bard, he’s unashamedly didactic. He’s not here to reflect life as it is. He’s here to pitch life as it should be — rational, decent, and marginally better educated.

And yes, there’s ego. Mountains of it. But find me a playwright who doesn’t believe they’ve got something important to say, and I’ll show you someone who ends up writing for Emmerdale or Corrie…

Sorkin is at his best when he’s angry — but it’s a hopeful anger. A righteous indignation that still clings to the belief that a well-constructed argument, delivered at 90 miles an hour, might actually change something. And in this glacial, bureaucratic circus we call modern democracy, that’s no small miracle.

So yes, Sorkin is our Shakespeare. Not because he writes in iambic pentameter, but because he gives language weight. Because he understands that sometimes, one man talking into the abyss can still shift the ground beneath your feet.

And look, I get it. Sorkin’s not perfect. He’s not subtle. He’s not modern in the minimalist sense. But he is — indisputably — ours. Our generation’s bard. Less codpiece, more cable news. Less Tempest, more West Wing. But every bit as necessary.

And if you still don’t believe me, just watch the final scene in A Few Good Men again.

“You can’t handle the truth!”

It’s not just a line. It’s a challenge. A gauntlet. A tragedy in twelve syllables.

And like all great writers, Sorkin dares you to handle it — with both hands, and maybe a side of fries.

Read more:
Sorkin is the new Shakespeare — only with better suits and fewer dead kings

I had the rare luck to be in New York on the opening weekend of George Clooney’s stage adaptation of Good Night, and Good Luck a few weeks ago.

Yes, that George Clooney. Silver fox. Espresso salesman. Occasional director of films watched mostly by other directors. And now, it seems, Broadway dramatist. I’ll admit: I wasn’t expecting brilliance. But I was expecting at least a flicker of fire – and in that, Clooney didn’t disappoint.

The production, based on the 2005 film he directed, itself based on the righteous television crusade of CBS newsman Edward R. Murrow against the creeping poison of McCarthyism in 1950s America, is tight, slick and worryingly relevant. For a play set in a world of monochrome television screens, chain-smoking men in boxy suits and studio backrooms filled with cathode hum, it lands with the force of a modern slap across the face.

Because what struck me most as I left the theatre and walked into the honking chaos of Times Square – dodging tourists, bins, and overpriced pizza slices – wasn’t just the nostalgia for a time when journalism had guts. It was the inescapable realisation that somewhere between Murrow’s smoky sign-off and the arrival of TikTok news, we lost the fourth estate. Or if we didn’t lose it, we bloody well gave it away.

And look – I know this sounds like the usual hand-wringing of a middle-aged media junky (guilty), pining for the golden age of Woodward and Bernstein, and a press corps that didn’t get its political insight from someone’s Instagram story in a Pret. But it’s not just sentimentality. There has been a slow, grinding erosion of journalistic integrity, curiosity, and – frankly – courage. And it didn’t start with Twitter.

It started with fear. Fear of being shut out. Fear of losing access. Fear of being labelled “biased”, “fake news”, or – worst of all – “not impartial”. And so instead of asking the questions that matter, the British press (and I’ll include myself here) too often settled for the pantomime of the Westminster lobby, the Sunday spin cycle, and the weary ritual of ministers “doing the rounds” with their talking points on breakfast telly, unchallenged.

Take the Covid Inquiry. A moment – finally – for those in power to be held to account. For decisions that cost lives to be unpacked, explained, exposed. But what have we had? Carefully crafted apologies. The odd emotional wobble. And a press pack that largely reported it all like a dull episode of The Thick of It. Where was the outrage? The ferocity? The sense that this might actually matter?

The same applies to our relationship with MPs, councillors, police commissioners, NHS Trust heads, and all the rest of the laminated-card-wielding brigade of local power. Once upon a time, a backbench MP caught with his hand in the till or trousers round his ankles would be chased down the street by a horde of hacks demanding answers. Now we email their press officer and wait two weeks for a line that’s been “signed off”.

Clooney’s play reminded me of something more dangerous than apathy. It reminded me of complicity. Murrow wasn’t just speaking truth to power – he was speaking truth to his peers. “We cannot defend freedom abroad by deserting it at home,” he warned. And though he was talking about Communism and witch-hunts and the paranoia of a post-war America, you could just as easily apply that to our current predicament.

Because when journalists stop asking difficult questions, or worse, stop being allowed to, democracy falters. People tune out. Trust vanishes. And into that vacuum comes the conspiracy theorist, the populist YouTuber, the self-appointed truth-teller with a ring light and a Patreon page. And they thrive not because they’re more accurate, but because they sound angry – and anger, in the absence of integrity, is what people are left with.

I am as guilty as everyone here, and I accept that as on a different level, pre-Capital Business Media, between  1999-2004 we owned a local newspaper and magazine group which owned titles in London Docklands, West Essex and Cambridge and we did go soft of local investigations of planning decisions and restaurant reviews to name just two for purely commercial reasons. Like all media, from the CBS of Murrow to our Docklands News advertisers pay staff’s mortgages, rents and school fees so you need to be careful to not bite off the hand that feed you.

I’m not saying we need to turn every local paper into a remake of Spotlight. But maybe – just maybe – we need a bit more Murrow in the mix. A bit more discomfort. A bit more risk. And yes, perhaps a bit more George Clooney. Because for all his Hollywood gloss and obvious earnestness, what Clooney has done – whether he meant to or not – is to remind us of the stakes.

He’s reminded us that journalism, when it works, isn’t about access or awards or being first on X (née Twitter). It’s about scrutiny. It’s about saying what no one else will, at the moment it matters most. It’s about the courage to be unpopular – to lose friends, jobs, advertising revenue – in the pursuit of something bigger than yourself.

So yes, Good Night, and Good Luck does still have a point. A sharp one. It points directly at the vacuum where our national conscience used to be. And it dares us to fill it again – not with opinion or noise, but with truth.

Whether we will… well. That’s the real drama, isn’t it?

Read more:
The slow death of the fourth estate – and why George Clooney’s Broadway revival hits harder than he thinks

There was a time, not so long ago, when America was the greatest country in the world.

Not just because it said so on the telly, not because it could nuke you from space, or because every high school film ended with a slow clap and a national anthem. No — because it led. With ideas, with invention, with democratic ideals (however hypocritically applied), with a swagger that came from real cultural capital, real global respect. America didn’t just show up to the party — it built the damn house.

But not anymore

And I don’t say this with glee. I’m not some sanctimonious Brit revelling in Uncle Sam’s decline while sipping tepid tea in a London kitchen. I say this because facts matter. Because rhetoric isn’t reality. And because under President Donald J. Trump — not once, but now twice elected as Commander-in-Chief — the United States has taken a chainsaw to its global reputation, its domestic integrity, and its long-term prospects.

Let’s be clear: America hasn’t been ‘great’ in the aspirational, post-war, Statue-of-Liberty sense for a while. But this time, it feels terminal. It’s not just decline. It’s wilful decay.

The environment? A joke. Trump’s ghoulish love affair with coal has been re-consummated. In a flurry of pen-strokes that would’ve made a 19th-century industrialist swoon, he reopened the gates to coal-fired power plants. Actual coal, like it’s 1902 and we’re all still clapping at the lightbulb. His executive order gutted environmental protections that were already on life support, essentially telling the EPA to sit down and shut up while we choke on soot.

Meanwhile, while the rest of the developed world sprints towards renewables, the U.S. is trying to mainline fossil fuels through a rusty IV drip. All while the Colorado River dries up, wildfires turn into seasonal events, and Miami starts to look like Atlantis.

But maybe that’s just optics, right? So let’s follow the money

Trump’s tariff tantrum — sorry, strategy — has laid waste to international trade. The man has slapped 10%, 20%, sometimes 50% tariffs on everything from Chinese electronics to EU steel, Japanese cars to Korean microchips. The goal? “Bring manufacturing home.” The result? A global trade war that’s got American businesses stockpiling foreign goods like doomsday preppers while prices spiral and consumer choice shrivels.

Even AI — the very sector that could give America a 21st-century edge — is being throttled. Tariffs on the microprocessors, rare earth metals, and servers required for cutting-edge AI have forced U.S. firms to contemplate relocating R&D overseas. Imagine voluntarily handing the AI crown to Beijing because you wanted to punish Huawei. That’s what’s happening.

And what does Trump do? He brags. About the “billions” pouring into the Treasury from tariffs. As if we’ve forgotten that tariffs are just taxes with a passport. The American consumer pays for those billions, Donny — not Xi Jinping. Target shoppers are paying for your trade war.

Then there’s the moral rot

Trump’s executive orders have surgically dismantled diversity, equity and inclusion policies across federal agencies. Not trimmed. Not restructured. Erased. Gone are initiatives designed to level playing fields, improve representation, and — dare we say it — bring America into the modern age.

He’s gone further still, launching a frontal assault on transgender rights. Under the guise of “restoring biological truth” — a phrase that could’ve been nicked from an Orwell novel — he’s reversed federal protections for trans individuals in employment, healthcare, and education. In 2025. In America. The supposed land of the free. Unless, of course, you don’t fit a narrow, white, hetero-normative mould.

But the most stomach-turning development? The sudden halt of foreign aid under a 90-day “review.” Aid to Africa. To Latin America. To parts of Europe still clawing back from conflict and catastrophe. Trump calls it a realignment. The State Department calls it a pause. But make no mistake: it’s abandonment. From the country that once airlifted hope. That once promised to be the world’s emergency exit in times of crisis. Now, it’s just another door slammed shut.

And yet — the man remains popular. His rallies are Woodstock for the wilfully ignorant. He’s turned politics into vaudeville, diplomacy into dogfighting, and the Oval Office into a green room for Fox & Friends. And America, bizarrely, keeps clapping.

So no, America is not the greatest country in the world. Not anymore

Not when it criminalises compassion. Not when it treats knowledge like a threat and science like an opinion. Not when it confuses bullying with strength, isolationism with sovereignty, and nostalgia with policy.

Greatness is about more than flags on lawns and missiles on standby. It’s about vision. Inclusion. Progress. It’s about leading not because you can, but because others want to follow you.

And right now? Nobody’s following.

America may still be powerful. It may still be rich. But greatness — true greatness — requires moral authority, cultural curiosity, and the humility to evolve.

That America? The one that built the Marshall Plan, funded the Moon landing, and gave us Maya Angelou and Miles Davis?

It’s a memory.

And if Trump gets his way — it’ll stay that way.

Read more:
America is not the greatest country in the world anymore

It’s a strange thing, the way we form connections with voices. Proper, deep-rooted, personal connections. The kind that feel like friendship, even though the other person has no idea we exist. The kind that, when news breaks of their passing, leaves us unexpectedly bereft—as though a part of our own personal history has just been snatched away.

That’s exactly how I felt when I heard that former F1 team boss Eddie Jordan had died this morning. I never met the man, never stood in a paddock and shook his hand, but for the past year or so, I’ve had him in my ears week in, week out.

His podcast with David Coulthard, Formula For Success, was part of my routine. That distinctive Irish lilt, the playful jabs, the slightly rogue opinions—he was as much a fixture in my week as my Yorkshire Tea in the morning. And now he’s gone.

But it doesn’t just feel like a public figure has died; it feels personal. And that got me thinking—why is it that voices, specifically those on radio and podcasts, feel so much more intimate, more emotive, than anything we watch on screen?

Growing up, the biggest influence on my musical taste wasn’t an older sibling as I didn’t have one, a cool cousin, they just tried to subvert my choice of football team, or a particularly progressive music teacher, sorry Mr Powell. It was Robert Elms. His show on GLR (or BBC London, or whatever incarnation the station was in at any given time) soundtracked my GCSE ‘revision days’ and has been a companion ever since. Robert is the reason I’m a jazz obsessive, the reason I’m a member of Ronnie Scott’s, the reason I first heard Amy Winehouse—long before Frank was even a glint in a record exec’s eye. He had met her father in a sauna, as you do, and invited her on the show. One listen and I was hooked.

And before that? Before I had the excuse of ‘revising’ with the radio on? There I was, an 11-year-old, sneaking a radio under the covers at my grandparents’ house, listening to Steve Allen on LBC. Back then, it was less political and more just… soothing. A familiar voice in the dark, shaping thoughts, sparking curiosity, and making me feel part of something bigger than myself.

Compare that to television. I watch a lot of it. Too much, probably. But if one of my favourite TV personalities or actors were to suddenly pass away, and there are far too many to name check, I wouldn’t feel that same pang. I might be sad, I might reflect on their best performances and dive down a Youtube rabbit hole on their work for an evening, but I wouldn’t feel like I knew them. There’s a certain detachment with TV. Even with the most brilliantly written characters, the most charismatic presenters, there’s always a screen between us.

But audio? Audio is different. It’s direct. It bypasses all the visual noise and speaks straight to the brain. It’s there in your ear, shaping the way you think, the way you feel. And because it lacks the distraction of visuals, it forces you to truly listen.

And it’s not just me. Think about the power of radio in times of crisis. Think about Churchill’s wartime broadcasts, the way people clung to every word as though it was a personal reassurance, not a national address. Think about the shipping forecast—still listened to religiously by thousands who have never set foot on a boat, or know where either Dogger or German Bight are. There’s a romance to radio, a directness to podcasts, a kind of intimacy that screen-based media just can’t replicate.

Maybe it’s because a voice in your ear feels like a one-to-one conversation, whereas TV and film are always a performance. Maybe it’s because we consume audio in moments of solitude—walking, commuting, lying in bed—whereas TV is more often a shared, passive experience. Or maybe it’s because when you listen to someone long enough, week after week, year after year, their voice becomes a fixture in your life, as familiar and comforting as a friend’s.

That’s why Eddie Jordan’s passing hit harder than I expected. It’s why losing a radio presenter or a podcaster often feels like losing a mate. It’s why I’ll keep tuning into Robert Elms for as long as he’s on air, and why I’ll always treasure the nights spent under the covers with a crackly old radio, absorbing the world through sound alone.

Because audio isn’t just background noise. It’s connection. It’s companionship. And in a world where screens dominate, it’s a reminder that sometimes, the most powerful stories aren’t seen at all—they’re simply heard.

Read more:
Eddie Jordan made me feel like I knew him: why voices on radio and podcasts move us more than TV ever can

Kemi Badenoch has always prided herself on being the straight-talking, no-nonsense politician, unafraid to ruffle feathers and say the supposedly unsayable. A darling of the right, a would-be Thatcher 2.0, she has spent her political career carving out an image of economic pragmatism wrapped in a distinctly ideological package.

Whilst her delivery is far from the ‘Iron Lady’, her latest move—seemingly pandering to Reform voters by stepping back from the UK’s Net Zero commitments—feels less like a principled stance and more like a political gambit that could backfire spectacularly.

It’s not just political commentators raising their eyebrows at Badenoch’s latest pronouncements; even the usually diplomatic business leaders are pushing back. Rain Newton-Smith, CEO of the Confederation of British Industry (CBI), issued a stark warning: now is not the time to retreat from green growth. Her words carried weight, highlighting that the UK’s Net Zero economy grew by a staggering 10% last year, contributing £83 billion to the national coffers. This isn’t fringe economics—it’s hard, tangible, economic success. Yet Badenoch, with a seemingly calculated nod to Reform’s climate-sceptic base, appears willing to put it all at risk.

This latest shift is, of course, all about votes. With Reform UK nipping at the Tories’ heels in the polls, Badenoch knows that unless she can claw back support from the right, she has no chance of winning a general election. So, what better way to appeal to the disgruntled, anti-establishment, anti-green contingent of Reform voters than by rolling back commitments to Net Zero? After all, Nigel Farage and his ilk have long derided green policies as expensive, unnecessary, and an imposition on ‘hard-working Britons’ (a phrase that remains undefined but is nonetheless deployed with alarming regularity).

But here’s the problem: business leaders, investors, and economists all know that Net Zero isn’t just about virtue-signalling or appeasing climate activists. It’s about jobs, investment, and long-term economic security. The UK has built a reputation as a leader in green finance and clean energy investment, and businesses have made decisions based on the assumption that the government will continue down this path. U-turning now risks shattering that trust and driving investment elsewhere.

Badenoch and her supporters like to present this as a simple choice between economic pragmatism and Net Zero idealism. The argument goes that ordinary people shouldn’t have to bear the financial burden of green policies, that energy bills are too high, and that prioritising economic growth means loosening environmental commitments. But this is a false dichotomy.

The reality, as Newton-Smith pointed out, is that the transition to Net Zero is itself an engine of economic growth. From offshore wind to hydrogen power, from battery technology to carbon capture, the UK has been at the forefront of industries that are not just ‘green’ but fundamentally profitable. And let’s not forget the global context—countries like the US, China, and Germany are pouring billions into their own green economies. If Britain steps back, it doesn’t mean the world stops moving. It just means we get left behind.

There’s something eerily familiar about Badenoch’s rhetoric on Net Zero. The same chest-thumping, short-termist, ‘Britain first’ rhetoric that characterised the Brexit campaign is now being deployed to justify environmental backpedalling. And much like Brexit, this shift is based on a fundamental misunderstanding of global economic realities.

Brexiteers argued that leaving the EU would free the UK from economic constraints and allow it to chart its own course. In reality, businesses faced increased red tape, supply chain chaos, and a loss of international investment confidence. The same fate awaits the green economy if Badenoch follows through with her anti-Net Zero pivot.

Investors crave certainty. They don’t pour billions into industries that might be thrown under the bus in the next election cycle. The UK’s commitment to Net Zero has been one of the few constants in an otherwise chaotic political landscape, giving businesses the confidence to innovate and expand. Throwing that certainty into doubt isn’t just environmentally reckless—it’s economically suicidal.

The Cost of Doing Nothing

Badenoch’s strategy might win her a few Reform voters, but it will come at an enormous cost. First, the economic damage—if businesses sense that the UK is no longer a reliable partner in the green transition, they will take their money elsewhere. Second, the diplomatic fallout—while the world moves towards cleaner, greener economies, Britain will be left looking like the petulant child refusing to play along. And finally, the electoral miscalculation—yes, there is a faction of voters who oppose Net Zero measures, but the vast majority of the British public, including the all-important younger demographic, support ambitious action on climate change.

Badenoch might think she’s playing to the crowd, but it’s the wrong crowd. The voters who care most about Net Zero rollbacks are already in Reform’s camp, and the voters who might have been open to her leadership will be repelled by what looks like cynical, short-term politicking.

Badenoch is at a crossroads. She can either stand firm in the knowledge that Net Zero is not just an environmental commitment but an economic necessity, or she can continue to chase the Reform vote, gambling with Britain’s economic future in the process. If she chooses the latter, she may find that what seemed like a clever political manoeuvre ends up being the undoing of both her leadership and the country’s long-term prosperity.

The choice is hers, but the consequences will be ours to bear.

Read more:
Kemi Badenoch’s Net Zero U-turn: A Political Play or a Policy Disaster?

Thank heavens, indeed, for Mark Carney. After watching his Thanksgiving address, I’ve never been more delighted at the thought that the next Prime Minister of Canada could be one of the most able public figures on the planet.

Let’s face it: the chap’s resumé reads like a hagiographic entry in Who’s Who. He’s done the rounds as Governor of the Bank of Canada (with startling success, I might add), dipped his toe—well, his entire foot, actually—into the murky waters of the Bank of England as a sort of honorary Brit and deal with the economic nightmare that was Brexit, and if that weren’t enough to scare off any fainthearted competitor, he’s also had a decent academic stint.

So who else would we want stepping into Justin Trudeau’s shoes than a man who can, with his head firmly on his shoulders, steer a massive economy without so much as ruffling his famously neat hair?

From the moment he opened his mouth at that podium, I was amazed. Firstly he switched between French and Canadian at a whim, that I, a French passport holder, could only dream upon enthralled—well, enthralled in the way one might be at a policy symposium where you suspect you might nod off at any second, but can’t, because Carney’s voice is just a bit too smooth.

It was a Thanksgiving address, yes, which might lead one to assume a certain brand of sentimental “and thanks to my mother, and thanks to the turkey, and thanks to the harvest” pap. But oh no. Mark Carney, good old Carney, delivered a string of words that were eloquent, grand, and oh-so-measured, “When you worship at the altar of Donald Trump, you will kneel to him, not stand up to him”, when talking about the 25 per cent tariffs that Trump is imposing on Canada.

No bombast, no fulmination, no confected rally-the-troops theatrics. It was precise, it was cerebral, and it was… well, it was quite Mark Carney. Yet, ironically, that cool, banker-esque persona might be the very thing that leaves some Canadians longing for a bit more show in their statesman.

Let’s not forget who the next Prime Minister of Canada will be up against on the world stage. Trump provides us with a particular brand of leadership, shall we say. Loud, brash, a tad unhinged at times—like a bull in a china shop, armed with a phone and a Twitter account. To hold one’s own on that stage, you might expect Mark Carney to morph into a rhetorical, podium-stomping arch-enemy to the American president, lobbing barbs with the best of them, the savage confrontation that Volodymyr Zelenskyy had to endure only last week.

But Carney’s not that chap, is he? He isn’t the sort to stand there yelling about walls or tweeting at four in the morning about celebrity gossip. You’ll not see him provoke a shoving match with a G7 colleague. And that, incidentally, is exactly why he’s the perfect choice. Because politics, for better or for worse, should be about competence, level-headed leadership, and the ability to speak to ordinary folk without scaring them witless about the state of the world tomorrow. Who needs another moose-like bellow from a North American leader when we can have a calmly guiding hand that says, “Look, the global economy is a bit of a thicket at the moment, but here’s how we navigate it without losing sight of our values”?

Don’t get me wrong, I enjoy a good rhetorical punch every now and again. Winston Churchill didn’t steer Britain through the war by softly mumbling that we’ll have a cup of tea and see how it goes. He roared. He cajoled. He made you feel that you were personally going to storm the beaches of Normandy, strapped to the hilt with courage. But Mark Carney, with his track record, doesn’t need to roar. He’s a two-time national banker, for heaven’s sake. He was the man who helped shepherd Canada through the 2008 financial crisis with minimal bruising. He was the Governor of the Bank of England in the years after the Brexit referendum, ensuring that—while many expected the sky to fall—London’s financial hub did not exactly transform into a wasteland overnight. He’s proven his mettle in situations that would have frayed the nerves of lesser men.

Hence my abiding gratitude that we’re about to witness a Carney premiership. No more of this foot-shuffling and glancing around, thinking, “He’s too polite for politics.” If Justin Trudeau taught us anything, it’s that Canadians have no problem supporting a leader who’s mild-mannered and well-spoken. They also happen to like leaders who get their facts straight, demonstrate some dexterity in both domestic and international arenas, and manage to project a sense of modern Canada: a balanced, globally-savvy, somewhat grown-up presence amid the howling oratory of other nations.

Carney, in that regard, is tailor-made. He radiates a certain old-school reliability that comforts. You sense he’s the sort of chap who’s never spilled his coffee down his tie, let alone humiliated himself in a petty Twitter war. His Thanksgiving speech might have lacked the rhetorical fireworks that get people’s blood pumping, but the substance was pure gold. It reminded us of what we ought to be thankful for: a nation with a stable democratic tradition, a place that celebrates immigrants, fosters innovation, and remains open for business without locking itself in the cut-throat theatrics that have turned so many people off politics.

Mark Carney may not single-handedly usher in a golden age of flamboyant verbal sparring on the global stage, but if “stuffy banker in a suit” is the price we pay for an honest, capable, and strategically-minded Prime Minister, sign me up. I’d rather have a leader who speaks softly and carries a briefcase full of actual, workable policies than yet another tedious purveyor of bombast and nonsense. Thank God, indeed, for this measured Canadian with an impeccable record and a willingness to stand at a lectern—minus the foot-stomping and self-aggrandising insults—and calmly show the rest of the world how it’s done.

If he channels even a fraction of that quiet brilliance—yes, brilliance—that made him the go-to man at not one but two major central banks, then Canada is in for one hell of a (composed, thoughtfully navigated) ride. And frankly, we could all use a bit of Carney’s brand of sanity right about now. Let the grateful cheering begin.

Read more:
Thank goodness for Mark Carney: The quiet genius poised to lead Canada

Oh, Donald. We really shouldn’t still be talking about you, but like a bad haircut, you just won’t go away. There you were again, hours after your inauguration in a suit that fits like a wind-blown tent, yelling “Drill, baby, drill!” to a crowd who, let’s be honest, would cheer just as loudly if you told them to eat gravel.

You’ve made it clear that you’re all for scrapping green policies, pushing fossil fuels like they’re the future (spoiler: they’re not) and undoing any progress the world has made towards carbon neutrality. And worryingly, some businesses—terrified by short-term costs and political uncertainty—are jumping on board. Back pedalling on their sustainability commitments faster than you back pedalled on that promise to release your tax returns.

Across the Capital Business Media Group, we have no plans to cave to this sudden rush of climate cowardice. We are carbon neutral, and we are staying that way. Because let’s be real—if your business is serious about the future, rolling back sustainability efforts isn’t just bad for the planet, it’s bad for business.

Let’s talk about the backsliders. Big oil, of course, has never seen a roll-back it didn’t like, but we’re seeing banks, airlines, and manufacturers quietly retreat from their bold Net Zero promises. They’ve realised that going green is hard work and—shock horror—requires actual commitment. So now, under the convenient cover of economic turbulence and political uncertainty, they’re taking the easy way out.

BP has scaled back its emissions reduction targets. Car manufacturers who once trumpeted their EV rollouts are suddenly hedging their bets and sticking with combustion engines a little longer. Airlines—who only last year were falling over themselves to showcase their ‘sustainable’ fuels—are now whispering about ‘balancing economic realities’.

And why? Because one orange-tinted property mogul-turned-politician has made a comeback, and they think he’s giving them permission to renege on their promises.

It’s spineless. It’s short-sighted. It’s exactly what we won’t be doing.

Carbon neutrality isn’t a fad—it’s the future

You’d have to be wilfully blind to ignore the fact that customers, investors, and employees care about sustainability. Consumers are making choices based on sustainability credentials, investors are favouring ESG-compliant businesses, and employees—especially the younger generation—want to work for companies that align with their values.

And yet, some businesses are acting as if sustainability is a passing trend, like Crocs or low-carb diets. It isn’t.

At Capital Business Media, we made the decision to go carbon neutral over five years ago, not for PR points, but because it’s the right thing to do. And staying carbon neutral is just common sense. Not only does it help future-proof our business, but it also puts us on the right side of history.

Because—and this bit is crucial—climate change isn’t a ‘debate’. It’s not up for discussion like the best way to make a cup of tea (it’s milk last, by the way, and if you disagree, you’re wrong). The science is settled. The planet is warming, extreme weather events are becoming more frequent, and businesses have a role to play in mitigating the damage.

For those companies now treating their sustainability commitments like a New Year’s gym membership—something they said they’d do but have now abandoned—it’s going to cost them. And not just in PR nightmares when they get called out.

Regulations are tightening. Governments around the world are pushing for stricter emissions controls, and businesses that fail to adapt will find themselves at a disadvantage. Carbon taxes, fines, loss of subsidies—these are all very real financial threats to those who think they can just sweep their green promises under the rug.

Then there’s the consumer backlash. People aren’t stupid. If a company suddenly ditches its sustainability efforts, customers will notice. And they’ll go elsewhere. The brands that double down on their climate commitments will win loyalty, while those that backtrack will be called out, shamed, and—most damningly—ignored.

Trump can chant “Drill, baby, drill” all he likes. He can hold up a chunk of coal and call it beautiful, he can claim that wind turbines cause cancer, or kill whales (yes, he actually said both of those things), and he can try to drag the world backwards into an oil-soaked past.

But businesses that have a shred of foresight, an ounce of integrity, or even just a desire to remain relevant in the coming decades will see through it. Sustainability is not a ‘woke agenda’—it’s good business. And it’s here to stay.

At Capital Business Media, we are carbon neutral and proud. We aren’t changing course because it’s inconvenient, we aren’t letting short-term political shifts dictate long-term responsibility, and we certainly aren’t taking cues from a man who thinks climate change is a hoax invented by the Chinese.

For those rolling back their sustainability efforts, here’s a bit of advice: wake up. The world is changing, the future is green, and those who fail to adapt will be left behind.

Sorry, Donald. But we’re not budging. And the businesses that want to thrive in the 21st century shouldn’t either.

Read more:
Sorry Donald, but we are carbon neutral and proud of it

It’s not exactly the end of civilisation, but I do love a bit of outrage when it comes to modern dining habits. These days, if you even suggest that a restaurant might have to protect itself from wanton no-shows, expect a torrent of indignation.

Yet here we are, with more and more establishments fed up enough to charge a £50 penalty for late cancellations or for those wretched souls who can’t be bothered to call and say, “Actually, I won’t be stuffing my face with your pigeon breast on a bed of wilted spinach tonight.”

You can’t blame the restaurants, really. It’s not just about empty tables; it’s about wasted food, wasted wages, and the quiet despair of managers who see their perfectly orchestrated evenings go awry because of last-minute flakiness.

The principle is simple: If you think about it, you wouldn’t hire a personal trainer for an hour, then casually “forget” to turn up without consequences. You wouldn’t book a hotel room, fail to check in, and then be taken aback by a charge. And yet, for some reason, people seem to believe the hospitality industry should simply roll with every wave of whimsical indecision that washes over its clientele. “We don’t want to commit,” people cry, “we’re far too busy having spontaneous, fleeting, oh-so-Instagrammable experiences.” Indeed. But that flighty disregard creates tangible damage for restaurants which, for all the glossy PR, still survive on tight margins, precariously balanced overheads, and the faint hope that the right number of paying customers walk in each night.

Truth be told, charging diners a deposit or a cancellation fee is long overdue. It’s not just the fancy Michelin-starred places that are adopting this approach either. Even modest local bistros, which used to rely on goodwill and the trust that if you booked you’d actually show up, are now looking at ways to ensure they aren’t left holding the baby—an empty table and a staff member twiddling their thumbs. Some punters whine that it’s “greedy” to take a deposit, but really it’s not. It’s business. And it’s a business that has been battered by lockdowns, rising energy costs, staff shortages, and, now, a wave of diners who might suddenly decide they fancy the pub instead—or, heaven forbid, an evening of Netflix on the sofa with a takeaway.

Here is the rub: Restaurants simply cannot bank on goodwill alone. And so, a £50 penalty if you fail to turn up or cancel in decent time might be the difference between a chef keeping a junior sous chef employed or letting them go. A table of four, that’s £200. Multiply that by a handful of no-shows on a Friday night and you can see how quickly revenues evaporate. So, if you’re in the habit of last-minute cancellations, be warned: your dithering might soon come with a hefty price tag.

Of course, there’s a new dietary challenge lurking on the scene too, one that’s prompted restaurants to worry about something else entirely: Ozempic. While the more superficial among us might just see it as the shiny new weight-loss drug beloved of Hollywood stars and fashionable city dwellers alike, restaurateurs are starting to experience the impact, a 30% loss in revenue. For the uninitiated, Ozempic is an injectable medication that helps curb appetite. The logic is straightforward enough: If you eat less, you weigh less. But if you eat less, restaurants have fewer starters, mains, and puddings to shift. A few svelte customers might sound like a dream to some, but the truth is if your clientele is picking at half a fillet of cod and forgoing dessert, your margins start to shrivel like a neglected soufflé.

Yes, I hear the cynics among you. “You can’t blame a drug for that,” you might say. But restaurateurs, already operating in a culture of ephemeral bookings, fickle diners, and last-minute cancellations, are also grappling with the reality that even when diners deign to arrive, they might only indulge in a single course and tap out before the cheese trolley rolls around. It’s a small shift in habits, but in an industry that relies on extras—wine pairings, side dishes, desserts—those little adjustments to the bill can add up.

So, in the spirit of trying to keep afloat, restaurants are concentrating on the battles they can fight. If they can’t guarantee the size of your appetite, at least they can be sure you’ll show up—or fine you if you don’t. This seems fair, to be honest, because in no other realm of business does one have to bend so dramatically to the whim of the consumer. If you want that prime table at eight o’clock on Saturday night in the city’s hottest spot, you’re perfectly entitled to it. You can absolutely enjoy the crisp linens, the theatrical cocktail-making, and the gastronomic artistry on your plate. But you must, must, must have the courtesy to keep your reservation or cancel in good time. If it all goes pear-shaped in your schedule, at least let the restaurant open that seat to someone else. That’s called basic manners—though it seems they’re in vanishingly short supply these days.

Naturally, there’ll be those who cry that the restaurant industry is ‘overreacting.’ But if you’ve got a brigade of chefs on staff, fresh produce that won’t sell itself, and a legion of overheads, relying on mere faith in human decency doesn’t quite cut it. So, a £50 penalty for a no-show? A deposit taken in advance? That’s the least you can do to safeguard your livelihood against the most capricious among us.

The bottom line is this: If you consider yourself a civilised person, and you call yourself a “foodie” (dreadful term, but that’s another rant), then you should be perfectly willing to pick up the phone, or drop a quick text if you find yourself unable to dine. Or, better yet, show up as planned, hungry or not, drug-induced appetite be damned, and support the artistry of these eateries that try so hard to delight you.

In a world threatened by flakiness and a new era of medically induced nibbling, let’s do the decent thing: honour our promises, show a little respect, and if all else fails, be prepared to pay the bill for the inconvenience. Because at the end of the day, that courtesy—like the perfect soufflé—is worth protecting.

Read more:
No-Shows, Ozempic, and the £50 Fee: Restaurants Have Had Enough

Read more:
50 years on from Thatcher’s rise: is Britain broken without her brand of leadership?

I remember once stepping off a transatlantic flight, still reeling from the rictus grins and endless refills of lukewarm coffee offered to me by the BA cabin crew, only to be greeted by a sea of disapproving faces at Heathrow.

My sin? Possibly existing, or maybe just trying to queue for passport control in the wrong lane. The moral of the story? There’s no shortage of ways the British can make you feel you shouldn’t have bothered, especially when you’re accustomed to the almost comical “Have a great day!” one gets in the States.

But here’s the rub: customer service matters. It really, really does. It matters not just because it gives your clients an immediate sense of whether you actually care about their custom, but because in a world where companies are jostling like punch-drunk boxers in a ring, being that little bit friendlier might be the difference between an uppercut that floors the competitor or being left, dazed and drooling, as your prospective customer wanders off to the chap next door.

Of course, we British like to say we’re polite. We queue, we mutter “thank you” when receiving short change from a bus driver, and we gush “so sorry” when a stranger treads on our foot. But politeness and customer service aren’t identical twins. One’s a formal courtesy – that benign acceptance of a neighbour’s savage new hedge sculpture, or a dull relative’s account of their bunions – whereas the other is a more deliberate, structured approach to treating customers well. Actual, genuine, helpful niceness. This is where we struggle.

Let’s be honest about it: American businesses, from the smallest diner in Boise, Idaho, to the glitzy mega-stores of Manhattan, generally do it better. They have a method – a downright formula. You enter a shop and someone greets you. They smile broadly (all teeth, no cynicism), ask you how you’re doing, and inquire if they can assist you. Sometimes it’s syrupy, sometimes a bit forced, but by and large, you walk out feeling a tad better, or at least not guilty that you darkened their door. Contrast that with the classic British “You all right there?” half-delivered from behind a stack of paperwork, while the assistant pointedly ignores the existential pain creeping across your face because you just want to find a size 10 in that jacket.

That’s not to say the entire British retail sector is manned by glowering gargoyles. There are stellar examples of marvellous customer service in the UK – the independent bookshop with staff who’ll recommend exactly the novel you didn’t know you wanted; the wine merchant who’ll steer you away from the half-priced Aussie plonk and gift you with a gem for the weekend dinner party. But these shining examples too often feel like delightful anomalies, rather than the norm. And that’s a problem. Why? Because in a globalised marketplace, people notice. They talk. They tweet. They Instagram. They do everything short of hiring an aircraft trailing a banner that says “Sally’s Shoe Shop in Sloane Square is dire,” and that can seriously hurt your bottom line.

So, why is it so important to improve customer service in British business? For one, consistency builds trust. If you know that every time you pop into a particular café you’ll be treated like an actual human being – with a smile, a dash of warmth, and a readiness to fix things if they go awry – you’re far more likely to come back. Then there’s loyalty. People want to spend their money where they feel valued. Who knew it would be so radical to make customers feel appreciated for shelling out their hard-earned wages?

Another reason is brand image. Slick marketing campaigns and glossy brochures might lure people in once, but it’s the in-store or on-the-phone interactions that cement their lasting impression. In an era when everything’s just a quick Google search away, you can be sure that if someone’s had a rotten experience, they’ll brandish their smartphone and pen a scathing review before you can say, “I’m sorry, how can I make it right?” Reputation, as the old cliché goes, is everything.

Now, let’s talk about the practical side. Is it really that hard to be nice to people who want to give you money? Is it that exhausting, that soul-destroying, to say, “Good morning, how can I help?” or “Have a lovely day”? Maybe the fear lies in the perceived American-ness of it all – that ultra-chirpy, grinning-from-ear-to-ear approach that can, admittedly, grate on British nerves. Yet there’s no need to go full Disneyland – no one’s suggesting you fling confetti at customers as they walk in. But a baseline of genuine pleasantness? That shouldn’t be such an ordeal.

Training is crucial. Invest in it. Proper induction for new staff, where they learn not just product knowledge but how to engage with customers in a friendly, attentive way, paying attention to detail and following up promptly. Teach them to listen – really listen – because there’s nothing more infuriating than explaining your predicament in meticulous detail, only to be met with a blank stare that says, “I stopped listening ten minutes ago.”

And here’s a radical notion: empower staff. Give them permission to fix problems on the spot without needing to consult seven different managers or, worse, a call centre in a different time zone. Customers love a quick resolution; it proves you value their time and want to make things right. And guess what? When employees feel valued and trusted themselves, they tend to pass that good energy along to the customers.

In short, British businesses could learn a thing or two from the Yanks about consistency and cheer. We have it in us to be the best hosts in the world – we’re the land of charming tea shops and faultless B&Bs, after all. So perhaps it’s time we channel that famed hospitality into mainstream business culture. Let’s banish the scowl behind the counter, the resigned sigh on the phone, and raise a swift cup of (perfectly brewed) tea to the notion that being pleasant pays dividends. It’s not that hard. So let’s do it. And let’s enjoy the benefits that come with delivering quality service: repeat business, sparkling reviews, and the distinctly satisfying knowledge that we might just be giving our American cousins a run for their money. Cheers to that.

Read more:
Cheer up, Britain! Why customer service really matters—and it’s not that hard to get right

Let me start by saying that I, like every self-respecting political junkie, have watched and adored The West Wing — all seven seasons, multiple times.

So before you roll your eyes and think here we go again, another musings-on-Sorkin piece, let me declare it plainly: the show remains as close as modern television gets to pure, unadulterated political catnip

It’s become a universal language, so much so that every English-speaking politician from Tony Blair and David Cameron to Canada’s Justin Trudeau has insisted, at some point, on comparing themselves to President Josiah Bartlet and his merry band of idealistic staffers.

The starry-eyed, walk-and-talk-laden world that Aaron Sorkin conjured up has seduced even the loftiest of policy heavies. Tony Blair’s love for it was famously well-documented: apparently No.10 once invited John Spencer – the late, great Leo McGarry – to break bread with Blair’s real-life chief of staff, Aaron Sorkin. One wonders if they also tried to rope in Martin Sheen to give them one of those soaring, paternal pep talks that always ended with him sauntering down the corridor while rousing orchestral chords hammered home the point.

And let’s not forget Bill Clinton’s adviser, Gene Spurling, who was not only a leading policy mind but served as an expert adviser on the show. Blair’s office invited him to dinner too, bridging that gap between fiction and reality so seamlessly that one might have expected C.J. Cregg to walk in and brief them on the daily crisis. The West Wing was the political soap du jour. It gave politicos the same rush a teenage pop fan might get from meeting the entire lineup of their favourite band backstage. For a certain generation, it was cultural currency — and, crucially, it made politics look downright cool, something that was in desperately short supply.

Fast-forward to 2017 (or indeed 2025, if we’re looking back and counting the years of regret). Enter Donald Trump as President. The question arises: how far removed is he from the luminous Sorkin universe? Trump is the antithesis of Bartlet, right? The brash spectacle, the Twitter rants, the preference for punchy, provocative soundbites over nuanced, reasoned debate — all of it seems anathema to the measured, idealistic, legislative artistry that Sorkin’s scripts so worshipfully championed. President Bartlet was a Notre Dame economics professor with a Nobel Prize, a man who’d pour over reams of data before making the slightest peep. Trump? Definitely not scribbling cross-charts of comparative advantage in the Oval Office.

And yet, watch carefully, and you’ll find moments of The West Wing in Trump’s presidency, whether we like it or not. The genius of Sorkin’s masterpiece lay in its ability to turn the daily drudgery of politics into compelling drama — the big set-piece speeches, the grand pronouncements, the staff’s unwavering devotion to their man. Trump’s White House might not do subtle, but it certainly goes big. And it’s that flair for drama, that showmanship, which paradoxically echoes the power The West Wing had over its audience. In a strange way, Trump turned the real West Wing into something more akin to a reality show, with cliffhangers every week and the press corps eternally breathless. We might not like it, but it’s got its own narrative arcs that might make Sorkin, in some bizarre alternate universe, nod in recognition.

Meanwhile, across the pond, we have to wonder if Keir Starmer’s people are busy working out which streaming platform the show is still on in the UK or hitting up eBay for the DVD’s and a Player to play them on for some marathon session ahead of strategy meetings. You can almost imagine a staffer breathlessly proclaiming: “We need to find our ‘Let Bartlet be Bartlet’ moment!” Indeed, according to The Times, the phrase “Let Starmer be Starmer” has just strolled into mainstream commentary. Let’s not forget it was “Let Bartlet be Bartlet” that became a rallying cry in the show — a reminder for our dear President Jed Bartlet to be his own best self. Now we’re hearing it of Starmer, and perhaps that’s the closest one gets to a truly British version of Sorkin’s flair. The noble counsel, the rousing phrase, the vow not to compromise. Sean Kemp quipped on Twitter this morning that this fresh bit of Starmer-lore completes “whatever the fourth goal of a hat trick is called.” Precisely.

But, aside from comedic parallels, one of the most intriguing endorsements of The West Wing came from Justin Trudeau who admitted on The West Wing Weekly podcast that he found the show entirely relatable, right down to the everyday grind of the job and the ephemeral “moments of moral clarity.” He even boasted that he used a 2002 Bartlet debate scene — you know, the one where the President annihilates his opponent’s shallow “10-word” answers — as prep for his own contests. And, fair play to him, it worked. Trudeau pranced into office with youthful swagger and rhetorical vision. Yet, as events have shown, the real political stage can’t be so finely scripted, nor can all the future’s curveballs be condensed into a snappy Sorkin speech.

The allure of that Sorkin speech, though, is something no political obsessive can quite resist. Take a quick spin through the best five minutes of any political programme, the opening scene of Sorkin’s The Newsroom (there’s a conveniently viral clip on YouTube, if you’ve got five minutes). There’s Jeff Daniels as Will McAvoy, cornered into an uncomfortably direct answer, launching into a blistering monologue about why America isn’t the greatest country in the world. It’s raw, it’s electric, it’s borderline heretical, and it’s how a great many political onlookers secretly long for politicians to speak: with honesty untainted by spin, delivering zingers that’d knock James Carville’s socks off. But in real life, that brand of oratory is as rare as hen’s teeth — especially now that spin itself has become a zero-sum game, the lifeblood of the permanent campaign. The only British politician who does come close is Nigel Farage, which might explain why he is now gaining in polls for his common-people direct style.

So here we are, decades into the mania for Sorkin’s seminal drama, and it remains the shining, unattainable standard for political conduct. It’s still quoted in press briefings, dinner parties, and, yes, Prime Minister’s Questions. The notion that every new prime minister (or indeed president) might be the next Jed Bartlet has proven more ephemeral than the soggy phrase “the new normal.” Yet, ironically, that might be part of The West Wing’s enduring genius: it presented not the real political sphere but the ideal. It’s an allegory for how we wish politics could be — high-minded, passionate, and infused with moral clarity — and not how it usually is, full of cheap jibes and shady negotiations behind closed doors.

So how far from The West Wing is Donald Trump? It’s tempting to say a million miles, that Sorkin’s measured erudition and Trump’s brash staccato simply don’t speak the same language. But I’m not entirely sure. They share a sense of showmanship, albeit on opposite ends of the rhetorical scale. Both delighted their respective audiences; Bartlet with refined moral passion, Trump with punchy populist jabs. If The West Wing taught us anything, it’s that political theatre resonates deeply. We want a big, emotional story, a sense of the moral arc bending the right way (or at least some way). Trump’s new presidency will be show of a very different sort, but a show it will certainly be. And perhaps that’s the real lesson: The West Wing showed how deeply politics and performance intersect. Whether you prefer the quicksilver repartee of Bartlet’s White House or the combative streetfighter style of Trump’s, both are indelibly etched into modern political culture.

In the end, I suspect all these references to The West Wing in politics — from Blair’s dinner guests to Starmer’s rhetorical pep talk, from Trudeau’s binge-watching will keep surfacing for years to come. As long as there are leaders who want to conjure that golden combination of intellect, charm, and unstoppable moral gravitas, Sorkin’s script will remain the Platonic ideal. And we’ll keep measuring real politicians by how far they fall short. Or, in Trump’s case, by how far he soared off in a completely different direction. One thing’s for sure: President Bartlet is still in that mythical corridor, walking and talking, as relevant as ever. And long may he remain so.

Read more:
Bartlet vs. Trump: the surprising West Wing secrets that still shape global politics

There’s a certain clairvoyance required of a great satirist, an almost supernatural knack for holding up a mirror to society and forcing us to see the grotesque reflection that lurks behind our glossy veneers.

Whilst always being a centrist politically, I have loved the ascorbic, usually left, sometimes far-left that British stand-up comedy brings and have been a huge fan of Ben Elton’s from his first outing in his shiny suit on Friday Night Live. Elton, the sardonic jester of British comedy and a proud Labour man of the Mrs Thatch era, delivered this in spades with Gasping, his debut play from 1990.

At the time, Gasping seemed like a clever, absurdist send-up of 1980s corporate greed, Thatcherite free-market frenzy, and the rise of glossy marketing machineries. But as we sit here in 2025, with the air around us tinged with both pollution and bureaucracy, one has to wonder—was Elton’s play less satire and more prophecy?

For those unfamiliar, Gasping tells the story of a slick ad executive who, in pursuit of the next big thing, helps his company invent and monetise “Perrier for the nostrils”—oxygen in a bottle. What starts as a hilariously absurd concept spirals into chaos, as the commodification of clean air leads to shortages, global inequality, and an all-too-real survival-of-the-richest scenario. Funny? Absolutely. Ridiculously prescient? Even more so.

Taxing the air we breathe? Surely not

Fast-forward to today, and Elton’s dystopian vision doesn’t feel as far-fetched as it once did. Sure, we don’t yet queue at Tesco for bottled oxygen, but it’s not entirely beyond the realm of possibility. Air quality has become a premium commodity in urban centres, with wealthier neighbourhoods often enjoying cleaner skies while poorer areas choke on the detritus of heavy industry. Purifiers, filtration systems, and even air-purifying plants have become middle-class staples—essentially a DIY tax on the air we breathe.

But where Elton really gets spookily close to home is in his critique of big business and governmental overreach. In Gasping, the corporate world exploits something that should be a universal right—clean air—and turns it into a cash cow. It’s hard not to draw parallels with our current predicament, where everything from water to parking to the miles we drive is metred, measured, and taxed. And with a government as hungry for revenue as today’s Labour Party, it’s not entirely inconceivable that oxygen could be next on the list. After all, we’ve already got carbon taxes—how far off is an “air utilisation levy”?

The irony, of course, lies in Elton’s Labour allegiances. Back in the day, he was the poster boy for Thatcher-bashing, a flag-waving advocate for socialist ideals and the redistribution of wealth. The idea that his beloved Labour Party could one day be accused of taxing everything under the sun—well, it would have made the younger Elton choke on his organically sourced lentil soup. Yet here we are, with some of the most inventive revenue-raising schemes coming from the red corner.

A new divide: oxygen as a status symbol

The world Elton imagined in Gasping is one where the “haves” breathe easy while the “have-nots” gasp for survival—a painfully familiar dynamic in today’s world. Clean air is no longer a given; it’s a privilege. In cities like Delhi and Beijing, air pollution is so severe that oxygen bars and personal air-purifying devices are booming industries. And while these innovations are marketed as lifestyle products for the affluent, they highlight a stark truth: the gap between those who can afford to protect themselves and those who cannot is growing ever wider.

The Third World, as Elton dubbed it in his play, is still being plundered, not for oxygen but for resources that keep the wheels of capitalism spinning. Meanwhile, climate change—arguably the ultimate indictment of our collective greed—has made clean air an increasingly scarce commodity. Forests, the lungs of the Earth, are cleared at an alarming rate, often in the name of profit. Elton’s satire wasn’t just about air; it was about the commodification of anything and everything, no matter the consequences.

So, was Ben Elton a satirical Nostradamus? Perhaps. Or perhaps his genius lies in his ability to distil universal truths into biting comedy. The themes he explored in Gasping—greed, inequality, environmental degradation—are as relevant today as they were in 1990. The difference is that we now live in the world he once exaggerated for comedic effect. The joke, it seems, is on us.

And what of Elton’s beloved Labour Party? Could he have foreseen its evolution from the scrappy underdog of the 1980s to the tax-happy establishment of today? One suspects he might have, though he’d have skewered them just as mercilessly as he did the Conservatives. Because, at his core, Elton is a satirist first and foremost, and satire spares no one—not even its own creators.

In the end, Gasping is both a warning and a time capsule, a reminder of where we’ve been and a cautionary tale of where we might be headed. As the world grapples with climate change, resource scarcity, and the ever-present shadow of corporate greed, Elton’s play feels less like a relic of the past and more like a roadmap to an unsettling future. So, if you find yourself reaching for your Dyson air purifier or paying extra for a seat in a “clean air zone,” spare a thought for Ben Elton. He saw it coming, and he made us laugh before we started gasping.

Read more:
Did Ben Elton predict his beloved Labour’s taxing future?

It wasn’t so long ago that having the option to work from your lounge in your slippers felt like a futuristic dream bordering on utopia.

Yet here we are, practically on the doorstep of the full remote revolution, and I’m watching a queue of business leaders feverishly backpedal towards outdated notions of “bums on seats.” Or, as I like to call it: “The Return of the Status Quo.” Pardon me while I stifle a yawn. Because if there’s one thing I’ve learned from a decade-plus of banging the proverbial drum about the virtues of working from home, it’s that the naysayers are usually being led by something that’s more about control (and a touch of distrust) than genuine business sense.

Let’s be perfectly clear: I’ve been peddling the work-from-anywhere mantra since 2011, if not earlier—my piece in Business Matters a five years ago, “Working at Home Can Lift Positivity, Productivity, and Profitability,” should have been etched onto the hearts of every forward-thinking employer. Back then, I remember the world patting me on the head and saying, “Yes, dear, lovely idea,” while proceeding to double-check no one was playing solitaire in the back corner of the office. It was like telling a Victorian mother you planned to feed her precious son vegetarian sausages. The horror. The uncertainty. The mild panic that everything we knew about corporate life was about to disintegrate into chaos.

Fast-forward a few years—well, more than a few—and we’ve all seen precisely how viable working from anywhere can be. There are even fewer excuses for archaic attitudes now. Technology has made it simple, cheap, and ridiculously flexible to replicate all the necessary functions of a physical workplace without actually dragging your bleary-eyed body onto a crowded commuter train. Of course, that’s not to say the standard HQ has no purpose. Some people genuinely love the camaraderie and structure of a shared space. But to insist that it’s the only way? That’s a bit like refusing to let your kids have a smartphone because you think carrier pigeons were doing just fine all those years ago.

One of the earliest arguments I recall making, in another Business Matters piece titled “Bodies & Bums Cost Money, Can Go Virtual,” was that paying for an army of chairs to be occupied from nine until five is both expensive and, frankly, pointless in the modern age. You’re shelling out for the real estate, the electricity, the toilet paper, the commercial coffee machine rental – and for what? A chance to watch Sandra from accounting type away in real time? A daily chat over the water cooler about last night’s telly? I’ve nothing against Sandra’s enthralling conversation, but let’s be honest: a good Zoom or Teams meeting can deliver the same interplay, minus the leaky commute. If you want to foster human interaction, schedule weekly get-togethers or one good off-site a month. But making it mandatory every single day feels as antiquated as a carbon copy receipt.

And yet, that’s precisely what many companies are doing, pressing the big red “Reverse” button on progress by dictating that everyone scuttle back under the fluorescent lighting, tethered to desks once more. We hear the same, tired rationale: “productivity is slipping,” or “team spirit is lost,” or (my personal favourite) “people can’t be trusted to do their work from home.” Let’s unpick those, shall we?

First, productivity. It is breathtaking how often remote staff end up working longer hours simply because they don’t have to endure the pains of a commute. Factor in that people can set their own schedules, do their best work when they’re actually feeling awake, and take breaks that don’t revolve around obligatory small talk in the kitchen. That’s not laziness; it’s quite the opposite. People who aren’t pigeonholed into a 9-to-5 routine often discover a sweet spot for output that suits their natural rhythms. And guess what? That usually means more deliverables, not fewer.

Second, the team spirit myth. As if the only thing binding a workforce together is the ability to physically see each other in an open-plan environment. Team spirit comes from shared goals, supportive leadership, and clear communication—not the faint smell of microwaved curry and the pitter-patter of frantic typing. Anyone who’s spent more than a week in a Zoom-based collaboration will know there’s a genuine camaraderie that sprouts when you’re working collectively towards the same objectives, even if you’re in different postcodes. And if you ever miss hugging your colleagues in person, you can meet up once a fortnight or month for that big, warm embrace—no harm done.

Lastly, the trust issue is perhaps the most bewildering of all. Why hire people you don’t trust, and then fixate on babysitting them from nine to five in an office? If your business model depends on eagle-eyed managers hawkishly scanning for slouching employees, there’s something rotten in the process. Good workers get the job done. Exceptional ones will do it better when given the freedom to shape how they work. Micro-managing, by contrast, breeds resentment and stifles creativity. We have a word for that, and it begins with “toxic.”

At the end of the day, businesses pushing a rigid return-to-office directive are not just ignoring the past decade of evidence that remote work is beneficial; they’re flipping a V-sign to the future. People have proven they can be even more productive, balanced, and, crucially, content working from spaces that suit them—be that a home office, a beach hut in Cornwall, or a Wi-Fi café in the mountains. I’m not saying offices should be eradicated entirely. I’m suggesting they ought to be an option, not an obligation. A tool, not a trap.

So, yes, I consider the “bring back the offices” brigade to be as misguided as dial-up internet evangelists—clinging to the comfortable drudgery of the old ways rather than forging ahead with the new. We can do better than that. In fact, we already have. The argument against remote work made some sense back in the ‘80s, but in the 21st century, it’s about as relevant as a Filofax. And if you ask me, long may that irrelevance continue.

So let’s collectively knock this regressive idea on the head. A flexible approach allows businesses to hire the best, keep the best, and get the best from them. Insisting on the old model of “bodies in the building” is short-sighted, blinkered, and will inevitably lead to a mass exodus of talented folks who know they can be just as effective—or more so—at home. After over a decade of championing this cause, I’ll say it louder for those in the back: real, thriving businesses in this century will value outcomes, not face time. And the rest? They’ll be left standing with their creaky roller chairs, wondering where it all went wrong.

Read more:
Why forcing a return to the office is a step backwards for business

Ah, Billy Joel. The piano man who once sang of an unstoppable blaze that’s been burning “since the world’s been turning.” Little did he know, decades later, we’d be taking frantic notes on how to handle the ever-growing conflagration.

As we step cautiously into 2025, it seems the heat has been turned up several notches, and all our attempts at controlling the flames have fallen somewhere between dire and dismal. If the political prognostications are to be believed—and they’re looking depressingly accurate these days—we might just need the world’s biggest fire extinguisher to keep this incoming year from resembling a global bonfire of sanity, sensibility, and solvency.

Let us begin across the pond at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, where, incredibly (or inevitably), Donald Trump will be reinserting himself behind the Resolute Desk on January 20th. The question, as always, is: who is he more resolute against—foreign adversaries, the US Constitution, or the hapless staffers caught in his crosshairs? He’s made it crystal clear he’s back, and he’s bigger, brasher, and bolder than ever. This is his re-coronation, after all. There’s something perversely admirable about the man’s chutzpah—like a pantomime villain who insists on returning season after season to rapturous boos from the stalls.

His supporters, of course, are more enthralled than ever, vigorously chanting about rigged elections and building new (or perhaps bigger) walls. They never stopped singing, “We didn’t start the fire,” because for them, The Donald is but a lightning rod. The fires are always someone else’s fault—China, Mexico, or the dreaded “mainstream media.” So pass the popcorn. This 2025 reboot of Trump: The White House Years might just be the box-office smash we’re all too exhausted to endure.

Meanwhile, back here in Blighty, it’s New Year’s Day, and the weather forecast is bleak— both figuratively and economically speaking. Whispers from the City suggest Rachel Reeves—the Labour Chancellor, or “the Iron Chancellor with rust around the edges,” depending on whom you ask—has been busy with her own brand of economic fireworks. We all prayed for grown-up economics: fair taxation, sensible spending, a balanced budget by the end of the century, maybe? Instead, we got a pyrotechnic show of tax hikes, missed targets, and the near-extinction of small businesses the entire UK farming community plus a potential brain-drain of entrepreneurs and income generators.

If the Treasury’s goal was to turn the UK into a cautionary tale for first-year economics students, it’s absolutely smashing it. Perhaps the single saving grace is that nobody can quite remember if there were any workable alternatives. We didn’t start the fire, but heaven knows it might have been nice if we’d kept a bucket of water ready just in case.

As if that weren’t enough, we’re watching British schools become veritable sardine tins, absolutely bursting at the seams with new arrivals, ironically from what used to be the private sector. Yes, you heard correctly. Private schools are predicted to be going bust left, right, and centre—unable to sustain themselves under punitive new taxes, a cost-of-living crisis that’s decimated middle-class incomes, and a wave of regulatory changes that have made top hats and Latin prayers about as fashionable as the fax machine.

Consequently, it seems half the pupils of Eton’s twin set have arrived on the doorstep of the local comprehensive, expecting someone—anyone—to teach them the difference between the subjunctive and the pluperfect, and to do it in a building that’s never been big enough for its catchment area, let alone these new overspill minor aristocrats.

The abiding question is how the already overstretched state system can possibly absorb so many new students. Some say it’s a lesson in humility for previously privileged families. Others call it a slow-burning tragedy for the entire education sector. In the grand scheme of our unstoppable inferno, it’s merely another rung on the ladder of incineration.

But let’s not forget the Nigel Farage story arc, which, like a recurring character in a soap opera you can’t quite believe is still alive, just keeps on turning up. He’s no longer just the cheeky scamp behind Brexit or the mouthpiece for disgruntled ex-Tories: oh no, this time if you believe the rumours swirling through the soggy tea rooms of Westminster, he might be poised to become Britain’s next Prime Minister.

Laugh all you like—but that cackle might catch in your throat when you see the polling data. It turns out that, in times of crisis, the British public has a curious habit of turning to the maddest-sounding option possible. For those who recall the night of the Brexit vote—arguably the night we collectively popped one of the biggest fireworks in our post-war history—there’s a creeping sense of déjà vu. Are we really about to anoint Farage with the biggest seat of power in the land? The thought alone could spark a meltdown so nuclear it’d make Sellafield’s radioactive stockpile look like a scented candle.

So here we are, 2025: a year that already feels like we’re all dancing on the rim of a volcano, while the embers from last year’s bonfire still glow beneath our feet. Some might protest that “We Didn’t Start the Fire,” but look around: between Trump’s second (or is it third?) coming, Reeves’s economic miscalculations, children fleeing bankrupt private schools, and the looming threat of a Farage-led government, we’re staring at a tinderbox. The conflagration could be unstoppable—yet again. But despair not entirely.

Human history has shown us that we’re a remarkably adaptive species. We keep going, stumbling from one year to the next, occasionally setting ourselves aflame in the process. True, 2025 might very well shape up to be a year of madness, but if there’s one lesson from Billy Joel’s timeless anthem, it’s that the fire has been burning for as long as we can remember, and yet we are still here.

Of course, perhaps we do need that world’s biggest fire extinguisher. Let’s pray we find one before we’re all reduced to ashes of self-inflicted stupidity.

Regardless, as we ring in the new year, brace for the possibility that the blaze might only intensify. Trump’s in the White House, Farage is circling Downing Street, our schools are creaking at the rafters, and the economy is rattling like a tea tray in an earthquake.

The question, dear readers, is: do we actually want to put out the fire? Or, like some mesmerised pyromaniac, do we find ourselves unhealthily fascinated by the flames? Only time will tell, but for now, it’s worth stocking up on extinguishers. We didn’t start it. But if 2025 is set to be the biggest bonfire yet, we’d better figure out how to at least keep the sparks from singeing our sanity. After all, there’s only so long we can stand the heat. And as Billy Joel might remind us: the world’s still turning.

Read more:
We didn’t start the fire (but goodness, we might need to put it out in 2025)

Could Nigel Farage really be the next UK Prime Minister? It’s a question that, a mere five years ago, would have sounded rather like asking if we’d ever see Piers Morgan run the Ministry of Manners.

And yet here we are, with Farage’s Reform UK party reportedly garnering a surge in new members—apparently outrunning the Conservatives in the membership stakes, and boasting a younger, more dynamic support base by a margin of at least 15 years. The Tory old guard, presumably, is drinking yet another cup of lukewarm tea in some draughty community hall, while the new kids on the block queue up for kombucha shots at a Reform UK rally. “The times,” as Bob Dylan assured us decades ago, “they are a-changin’.”

Of course, if we’re to believe the rumours, Reform UK also has potential financial backing from the world’s richest man himself, Elon Musk. Yes, that Elon Musk: the rocket-launching, Twitter-purchasing, multi-billionaire entrepreneur who chucks Teslas and satellites into space for sport. The same man who started off revolutionising the electric car industry and wound up with a curious hankering to buy up social media platforms for fun. Musk, mind you, is not exactly known for his shy and retiring approach to politics—or anything else. The notion that Musk might see in Farage a kindred spirit for disruptive politicking and a global platform for their shared brand of contrarian mischief is not entirely outlandish. After all, you could argue they’re both showmen of sorts, each boasting that brash, unstoppable self-confidence that could whip up a global storm in a teacup faster than you can say “Brexit 2.0.”

The truly staggering thing in this scenario, though, is that ordinary Britons—battle-scarred after years of Brexit sagas, pandemic bungles, and fractious leadership contests—might actually be prepared to back Farage as he once again sets out his stall. Remember, this is the man who promised to “get Brexit done” before it was even Johnson’s catchphrase, and whose dogged efforts have, arguably, shaped the entire political trajectory of the UK in the last decade. Love him or loathe him, there’s no doubt that Farage has altered the national conversation—and the national identity. He’s the unstoppable political cameo who marches in and out of the limelight, brandishing a pint and a seemingly endless array of soundbites that enrage one half of the population and endear him to the other half.

But this notion of him returning, phoenix-like, from the ashes of UKIP and Brexit Party stints, and taking on the top job at Number 10? It’s a fantasy that might have some Tory MPs waking in a cold sweat. Picture the scene: you’ve slogged your way through years of Conservative membership, handing out leaflets in the rain, only to have Nigel Farage waft in, grinning ear to ear, flanked by Elon Musk’s retinue of robotic dog prototypes, Twitter flame wars, and rocket tattoos. The possibility that the Conservatives—traditional stalwarts of British politics—could be overtaken by a party that’s not only younger but possibly richer (once Musk opens his digital chequebook) is enough to send a shiver up even the sternest suiting of the Westminster corridors.

Critics, of course, will rightly query whether Farage is even electable in the mainstream sense. Sure, he’s a household name. But is he a household name in the manner that conjures confidence and trust, or is he just that bloke who reminds you of last orders at the local pub? And how far can a brash, anti-establishment figure go in actually leading a government, rather than merely pointing fingers from the outside? We must remember that part of Farage’s whole schtick is his ability to lob grenades from the sidelines, stirring the pot and gleefully undermining whichever politician gets in his crosshairs. It’s a world away from navigating the unglamorous labyrinths of public policy, health crises, and foreign diplomacy.

Then again, one might have said the same about Donald Trump before 2016—and look how that turned out. The populist wave that swept through the Western world in the mid-2010s has quietened somewhat, but it hasn’t vanished. There are plenty of people—especially younger voters—feeling deeply disillusioned with the status quo. The Conservatives, it seems, are left trying to convince potential new supporters that “fiscally prudent” doesn’t have to mean “grey and dull.” Meanwhile, Labour does its best to claim the progressive mantle, but the ghost of Corbyn still rattles around for some, while the shadow of Blair’s New Labour is hardly the trendiest look for Gen Z. If Farage and Reform UK manage to capture a blend of rebellious energy, economic promise, and a dash of Musk’s futuristic bravado, we might be in for quite the ride.

What’s truly fascinating is how Brexit has, in many ways, reshaped British politics to allow for a figure like Farage to keep bouncing back. It used to be that once a politician declared themselves done, that was it: the diaries were published, the after-dinner circuit was booked, and the shadow of retirement loomed. Farage, on the other hand, seems blessed with an indefatigable thirst for the spotlight, always returning with a new banner, a new set of pledges, and a new reason to exclaim how dreadfully incompetent everyone else is. A cynic might say we’ve been here before, and it’s just another of Nigel’s vanity projects. But if the rumours of that Musk money are true, well, that’s the sort of budget that can shift the electoral dial in ways rarely seen in our green and pleasant land.

Could Nigel Farage really be the next UK Prime Minister? Stranger things have happened, though probably not many of them in the staid, centuries-old tapestry of British politics. For now, we can do nothing but watch with horrified fascination as the Reform UK membership balloons (if their claims are to be believed), sipping on that proverbial pint alongside Nigel—though presumably, in Musk’s presence, it might be a zero-G pint served aboard a SpaceX capsule. Meanwhile, the Conservatives look like they’re stuck in a game of musical chairs, with half their seats wobbling precariously, uncertain who’ll be left standing when the music stops.

So yes, it could happen—just don’t place your entire life savings on it yet. We Brits have learned not to discount anything in politics, especially where Mr Farage is concerned. If he does somehow assume the mantle at Number 10, one can only imagine the flamboyant cabinet picks and the possible prime ministerial statements via tweet (or X, or whatever Elon calls it by then). It might be outlandish, it might be catastrophic, but no one can deny it would be entertaining. And, if nothing else, it would confirm what many have long suspected: that in modern British politics, absolutely anything goes.

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Could Nigel Farage really be the UK’s next Prime Minister, I mean really?

On Tuesday, I’ll be joining a Westminster protest for the first time in my life. Yes, me—a man more comfortable behind a laptop than in front of a megaphone, who once thought the height of rural activism was separating the recycling correctly. But something has stirred me into action: the plight of British farmers under proposed changes to inheritance tax.

Now, I’m not a farmer. But for five years, I lived in Little Brington, a beautiful farming village in rural Northamptonshire. It was there that I truly grasped the essence of multi-generational farming. Families whose names have been etched on the same fields for centuries, their livelihoods tied to the land like ancient roots. These families don’t just work the land—they are the land.

When I heard Rachel Reeves announce the proposed changes to inheritance tax, my first reaction was disbelief. These policies feel like they’ve been dreamt up in some Whitehall echo chamber by people who think milk comes from Tesco and wheat arrives pre-sliced. The new rules, which could force families to sell parts of their land to pay inheritance tax, don’t just threaten their livelihoods—they threaten their legacies, their histories, and, frankly, our food security.

If you’ve ever watched Clarkson’s Farm, you’ll know what I’m talking about. Jeremy Clarkson, that unlikely champion of agriculture, peeled back the pastoral curtain to reveal the grim economics of British farming. A farmer might own 400 or 500 acres of land worth £10,000 per acre, plus a farmhouse and some battered machinery totalling another couple of million. On paper, they’re millionaires. But in reality? The average British farmer scrapes by on a profit of around £75,000 in a good year. Factor in bad weather, fluctuating market prices, and skyrocketing costs, and it’s easy to see how the balance sheet ends up looking like a punchline to a bad joke.

Yet under these proposed inheritance tax changes, farmers are being treated like cash-rich oligarchs. Imagine a family that’s spent generations stewarding 500 acres of farmland, only to find that the tax bill when the patriarch or matriarch dies forces them to sell off large chunks of their estate. It’s not just a financial blow—it’s an emotional and cultural gut-punch. And it’s happening at a time when we should be doing everything in our power to protect British farming.

Because let’s be clear: farming is not just about fields and tractors. It’s about feeding a nation. British farmers already face relentless competition from cheap imports and the looming uncertainty of trade agreements. Add punitive inheritance taxes to the mix, and you’re essentially dismantling an industry that’s already hanging by a thread.

Living in Little Brington gave me a front-row seat to the quiet heroism of farming life. I remember waking up to the hum of tractors before sunrise, seeing sheep huddled against winter winds, and chatting with neighbours, who could tell you the exact day their grandfather bought the land we were standing on. Farming isn’t just a job—it’s an identity, a legacy, a calling.

But it’s also relentless, underpaid, and often thankless. Watching Clarkson’s Farm drove home the point that farming isn’t for the faint-hearted. It’s a high-risk, high-stress business where one bad season can spell disaster. And yet, these are the people who ensure that milk, meat, and veg end up on our plates. It’s a responsibility they carry with dignity, even as policymakers pile more weight onto their already bowed shoulders.

This is why I’m standing with British farmers next Tuesday. I’ll be there in my decidedly non-rural coat, probably clutching a thermos of coffee and wondering how exactly to chant without feeling like an idiot. But I’ll also be there because this isn’t just a fight for farmers—it’s a fight for all of us. A fight for the landscapes we love, the food we rely on, and the communities that make Britain what it is.

The proposed inheritance tax changes are not just bad policy—they’re a betrayal of the people who keep this country fed. We’re talking about families who work seven days a week, 365 days a year, in conditions most of us wouldn’t last a day in. And yet they’re expected to swallow the idea that the government can swoop in and take a massive chunk of their estate simply because they’ve had the audacity to die.

This isn’t about special treatment for farmers—it’s about fairness. It’s about recognising that farming is not like other businesses. You can’t liquidate a few hundred acres without fundamentally destroying the operation. You can’t put a price tag on centuries of heritage. And you certainly can’t replace British farmers with faceless conglomerates and expect the same care and commitment to the land.

Ex-Labour adviser John McTernan has suggested that what Starmer is doing to farms is ‘what Thatcher did to coal mines’.

So, yes, I’ll be at Westminster. And I won’t just be protesting the tax changes—I’ll be standing up for the farmers of Little Brington and everywhere else. For the people who rise before dawn to tend to their herds, who battle through rain and snow to harvest their crops, who live and breathe the land in a way most of us will never understand.

This isn’t just their fight—it’s ours too. Because when the farms are gone, we’ll realise too late what we’ve lost. And I, for one, refuse to let that happen without a fight.

If you’d like to join the protest on Tuesday 19th November the organisers are asking people who plan to attend to register online first so they can work with the Metropolitan Police on managing numbers and also communicate maps and itineraries.

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Why I’m Supporting British Farmers Against Ill-Thought-Out Inheritance Tax Changes

For more than a decade, I’ve prided myself on being a work-from-home veteran. I’m not one of those newcomers thrust into the world of remote work by a global pandemic, awkwardly balancing a laptop on the ironing board or converting the spare room into a sterile office.

No, I’ve been working from home long enough to see trends come and go, to witness the rise and fall of the “work from the couch” movement and the inevitable return of some people to physical offices, weary of the isolation. Through it all, I stayed resolute in my setup—a sturdy desk, a good chair, and, let’s be honest, far too many snacks within arm’s reach.

But the winds of change are relentless, and it seems not even I could resist them forever. So here I am, after all these years, writing to you from a standing desk, perched elegantly like a modern-day work martyr, my feet gliding along on a walking treadmill beneath me. The very idea of it a few years ago would have had me rolling my eyes. Standing desks and walking treadmills? What are we, lab rats? But after working from home for so long, there came a point when even the most seasoned remote worker had to admit: things needed to change.

I suppose it all began with the nagging aches that started creeping into my body, the ones I had long chosen to ignore. I’m no stranger to stubbornness—who is after working from home for as long as I have? There’s a certain pride, or perhaps delusion, that comes with having your home office locked down just the way you like it.

But while I had embraced the freedom, my body had quietly declared a rebellion. The endless sitting—sometimes for hours at a stretch—had done me no favours. Let’s not mince words: years of sitting glued to a screen in the same chair can do unspeakable things to your posture, your back, and your waistline. And as the days turned into years, those small aches turned into a low hum that followed me around, until one day I realised, well I do turn fifty next year, I wasn’t a sprightly young thing anymore but rather someone who now grimaced every time they got up from their desk.

Enter the standing desk

The one that caught my eye was the FlexiSpot E7 Pro, a rather sleek piece of machinery that promised to solve all my woes and I have not looked back. Adjustable at the push of a button, sturdy as a tank, and with enough room to hold my array of notebooks, coffee cups, podcasting microphone, GoPro camera and all the other accompanying tech to deliver the weekly Everything EV podcast for EV Powered for our 100,00 plus listeners. I liked the idea of being able to change my position throughout the day—up when I needed to focus, down when I needed to relax (or, you know, read the news and pretend it’s research).

Standing, I have to admit, felt revolutionary. After years of slumping in my chair, albeit a posh Herman Miller Aeron from the days when we had our physical office at Canary Wharf that I trudged to every day. Here I was, upright, alert, feeling as though I had unlocked some kind of productivity superpower. I found myself moving more naturally, shifting my weight, stretching, and even feeling a little more engaged with what was happening on the screen in front of me. My legs stopped feeling so restless, and, dare I say, my back even started feeling better. It’s a simple change, really, but one that has made a remarkable difference to how I approach my workday. No longer do I feel as though I’m stuck in one spot for hours on end, slowly fusing to the chair like some kind of office furniture chimera.

Of course, standing alone wasn’t enough to completely shake up my routine. If I was going to go full wellness guru, I figured I might as well go all the way and invest in a walking treadmill. Yes, that’s right, I became one of those people—the ones who type away while walking at a slow, steady pace like a hamster on a wheel. At first, it seemed ridiculous, the sort of thing I’d have mocked over a cheeky g’n’t with friends pre-pandemic. But as my treadmill hums quietly beneath me, I have to admit that the novelty of it faded quickly, replaced by a real sense of purpose.

There’s something almost meditative about it, the gentle rhythm of the belt beneath your feet as you go about your day. No longer do I feel like my body is being held hostage by my desk. Instead, I’m in motion, constantly, even if it’s only at a modest pace – around 6mph is my average. It’s not about breaking a sweat (although that could come in handy during a particularly stressful deadline). It’s about moving, keeping the blood flowing, and not succumbing to the aches and lethargy that can so easily take hold during those long, stationary days.

It hasn’t transformed my life into a montage of fitness magazine perfection, but it’s a subtle shift that has made me feel better, more energised, and frankly, a bit smug about my setup. After years of believing I had everything just right, I’m realising that perhaps it’s not about locking into one way of working forever. Change is good, even for us old remote work dogs. And who knows, maybe in a few years I’ll be writing another piece extolling the virtues of some new gadget that I swore I’d never adopt.

For now, though, I’ll just be here—standing tall and taking it all in stride. Literally.

Read more:
The standing desk revolution: Why I finally gave in

Bramley, a picturesque Surrey village, has found itself the unfortunate poster child for a modern malady plaguing Britain: the disappearance of accountability.

What began as a mysterious stench in a pub’s cellar has morphed into a full-blown ecological and bureaucratic disaster, with petrol seeping into the earth and local authorities shrugging their shoulders. A petrol station once owned by the Co-op and now run by Asda has been leaking fuel for years, causing significant damage to the environment, residents, and their livelihoods. But the most disturbing part of the saga? No one wants to take responsibility.

To outsiders, the story of Bramley’s woes reads like a Kafkaesque nightmare. A broken pipe beneath the Asda forecourt leaked fuel into the village’s water system, contaminating supplies, killing fish, and forcing the replacement of pipes. Since May, 600 households have been unable to drink their tap water safely. Thames Water is doing what it can, but residents are left with a village scarred by constant roadworks and disrupted businesses, while their homes may now sit on a toxic petrol slick. Their concerns about property values seem to fall on deaf ears.

Asda, the petrol station’s current owner, has masterfully distanced itself, labelling the problem “historic.” The supermarket chain is now majority-owned by private equity giant TDR Capital, a fact that only compounds the sense of faceless corporate negligence. Meanwhile, Surrey County Council passes the buck to Waverley Borough Council, which claims no authority to intervene. The Environment Agency, citing an ongoing investigation, remains silent, while the UK Health Security Agency asserts that its role is “advisory rather than regulatory.”

Asda’s chairman, Lord Rose, who it was revealed this week is taking over from Mohsin Issa, told a residents’ meeting in the village there would be ‘no quick fix’.

To the residents of Bramley, this constellation of agencies, councils, and companies exists in theory to protect them. Yet, when their small village was thrust into crisis, each body pointed fingers elsewhere, leaving the villagers to face an unnerving reality: when something goes wrong, no one is prepared to take responsibility. It’s not just a localised problem, either—it’s emblematic of a much wider issue across Britain today.

This shift away from accountability is something Dan Davies explores in his book The Unaccountability Machine, which paints a bleak picture of how big systems are structured to avoid responsibility. The Kafkaesque dance of passing the buck seen in Bramley is a perfect example of what Davies terms an “accountability sink”—a place where decision-making is so fragmented that no one is ever to blame when things go wrong. Bramley has become an unwitting symbol of this modern malaise, where sprawling bureaucracies and corporations have lost the ability, or perhaps the will, to respond to human problems with anything other than indifference.

The Bramley saga is not just a freak occurrence; it is the result of a long-developing trend towards unaccountability. It’s a mindset that began in the early days of corporate structures, as limited liability allowed investors to reap the rewards of risk without bearing the full consequences of failure. Davies explains that this made sense when the risk was spread across individual shareholders, like a widow investing her savings in a railway company. However, in today’s world, it’s private equity giants and multinational corporations benefiting from these protections—shielded from blame when things go wrong.

So, what happens when the system becomes so unwieldy that the feedback loops between action and consequence break down entirely? For the residents of Bramley, it means they’re left navigating a labyrinth of agencies and authorities, none of which seem to have any real interest in fixing the problem. Companies like Asda, backed by private equity, are happy to assert that the issue predates their ownership, leaving villagers frustrated and feeling abandoned. It’s a game of pass-the-parcel with no winner, only losers.

Davies suggests that systems built to manage the complexity of the modern world often sever the direct link between decision-making and responsibility. As organisations grow and processes become more industrialised, those within them lose their sense of agency. It’s not that no one cares—it’s that they are operating in a framework designed to prevent anyone from caring. This is what Davies likens to a “decerebrate cat”—a system that can function, in a technical sense, but without the ability to respond meaningfully to real-world issues.

For the people of Bramley, this cold, dispassionate system is all too real. They face the frustration of speaking to low-level functionaries who simply lack the power or authority to take decisive action. In many ways, the problem goes beyond the specifics of the petrol leak: it speaks to a much larger crisis in our institutions and corporations, where the drive for efficiency and profit has rendered human-scale problems invisible.

What is particularly damning is the realisation that this could have been avoided if someone, somewhere, had cared enough to act sooner. In a simpler time, a leak would have been fixed, apologies made, and compensation offered. But now, even determining who owns the problem feels impossible. The residents are left in a void, where corporate interests, local government, and national agencies all pretend the matter is someone else’s to solve.

The truth is, the system has been designed to fail them. The rise of private equity ownership, the fracturing of regulatory responsibility, and the erosion of local authority power all contribute to a culture where it is easy to evade responsibility. And unless something changes, Bramley’s experience will not be unique. Other villages, towns, and cities across the country may soon find themselves entangled in similar webs of indifference and inaction.

The plight of Bramley is a warning. It shows what happens when responsibility is allowed to slip through the cracks, when systems are designed to protect organisations rather than the people they serve. If we don’t start addressing these accountability sinks, the question won’t be whether another village suffers, but how soon it happens.

Read more:
When accountability fades: The toxic reality facing Bramley and beyond

It’s a warm, smug sort of thought, isn’t it? That you could just throw money at a problem, like lobbing loose change at a busker, and suddenly you’re the king of the world. Or in Lawrence Stroll’s case, the king of Formula One.

Now, there are few places where the concept of ‘buying success’ rings more true than in the high-octane, ultra-glamorous world of F1. And it’s a narrative as old as time: the plucky underdog dethroning the incumbent monarch with a little cash and a lot of cunning. We just need to look at the 2009 season and the amazing wonder that was Brawn GP with Ross Brawn buying a team for one pound just before the start of the season and winning the championship by the end of it. Except here, the plucky underdog is a billionaire with more yachts than you have socks, and his cunning move is to hire the best mind in the business. Enter Adrian Newey, the Michelangelo of F1 car design.

For those unfamiliar, Newey’s not just some bloke who sketches out go-faster stripes in crayon. He’s the mastermind behind many a championship-winning car. Red Bull, Williams, McLaren—they’ve all basked in the glory of Newey’s genius. So when the news broke that Stroll, owner of the Aston Martin F1 team, might be looking to secure Newey’s signature once he had decided to leave Red Bull, eyebrows shot up faster than an F1 car off the starting grid. Is this just a case of ‘here we go again,’ with a rich man thinking he can buy himself a crown?

Let’s not beat around the bush—Formula One is a game of obscene wealth. Always has been. But while the likes of Ferrari and Mercedes pour millions into wind tunnels and tyre compounds, it’s the brain behind the machine that often makes the real difference. Sure, money can buy you state-of-the-art tech, but it can’t buy you the uncanny knack of reading airflow like it’s a Sunday crossword, and that’s where Newey comes in. He’s the chap who can look at a car’s aerodynamic profile and see not just a sleek bit of engineering, but victory—or failure. It’s the kind of instinct you can’t teach or buy; it’s just… there. Like some blessed, magical talent that makes the rest of us mere mortals feel woefully inadequate.

Lawrence Stroll is no stranger to splashing the cash. He’s already dragged Aston Martin out of the midfield mire with the kind of financial clout that turns heads and raises eyebrows. But Stroll knows that having a budget larger than the GDP of a small nation is only half the battle. The other half is knowing what to do with it. And what better way to spend your millions than by hiring the best in the business?

Newey signing to join Aston Martin is a coup of historic proportions. It would be like Real Madrid signing Lionel Messi in his prime, or Apple hiring Jonny Ive’s to design their mobile phone idea. It’s an audacious, bold, and undeniably risky move, but that’s precisely the kind of move that Stroll loves. He’s not in this for the slow and steady climb up the ranks. He wants champagne on the podium, not flat Prosecco in the pit lane.

But let’s not get carried away. For all of Newey’s talents, he’s not a one-man band. It’s not as if he’s strapping into the car himself and setting lap records. F1 is still a team sport, one that requires not just a wizard of design but drivers who can squeeze every last drop of performance from the car, pit crews that operate like Swiss watches, and strategies that are more 4D chess than checkers. And let’s not forget, Newey’s been at Red Bull for yonks, crafting cars around the driving style of Max Verstappen, who, by all accounts, could probably win a race in a shopping trolley.

What Stroll is really buying is not just Newey’s brain but his credibility. The cachet that comes with having Adrian Newey on your payroll is immense. It’s a statement that Aston Martin isn’t just here to make up the numbers; they’re here to win. But credibility doesn’t always translate into championships. Just ask Ferrari.

So has Lawrence Stroll bought himself the Formula One World Championship by potentially hiring Adrian Newey? Well, he’s certainly bought himself a fighting chance. But F1 is a fickle beast. One minute you’re sipping Moët in Monaco, the next you’re trudging through gravel traps wondering where it all went wrong. Stroll’s gamble, if it pays off, could be a masterstroke. If it doesn’t, it’ll be yet another footnote in the long, costly saga of F1 dreams gone awry.

At the end of the day, success in Formula One isn’t just about who has the deepest pockets but who uses them best. And if Stroll can pull this off, it won’t just be because he threw a wad of cash at a problem. It’ll be because he understood what really makes a winning team. And that, dear reader, would be worth every penny.

Read more:
Has Lawrence Stroll Just Bought the Formula One World Championship by Hiring F1 Design Guru Adrian Newey

I’ll say it straight: I’m backing Kamala Harris for President of the United States. Yes, you read that right.

While the current political circus across the pond often feels like a far-off Netflix drama that’s both compelling and maddening, there’s something about Harris that makes you stop scrolling, sit up, and think, “Hang on, she could actually pull this off.”

But let’s not get ahead of ourselves. This is more than just a cheerleading piece; it’s a dive into why, despite all the noise and fury, Harris represents a future that’s sorely needed.

First, let’s address the elephant in the room: the woman is an underdog. Despite serving as Vice President, Kamala Harris hasn’t exactly had the smoothest of rides. She’s been criticised, sidelined, and at times, frankly, underestimated. The US political stage is no easy arena, and for every triumph she’s had, there have been missteps that her detractors have seized upon with gleeful abandon. But if you’re sitting there with your cup of tea thinking this is a bad thing, then you’re missing the point entirely. Because Harris’s story isn’t about perfection; it’s about perseverance. And if there’s one quality a leader needs in this tumultuous world, it’s a willingness to keep going when the odds are stacked against you.

Kamala Harris has the kind of grit that you simply can’t fake. Raised by immigrant parents in a world that didn’t exactly roll out the red carpet, she’s fought her way up from the courtroom to the Senate, and now, the White House. And let’s be honest—there’s something refreshing about a politician who knows how to throw a punch and take one too. Harris’s background as a prosecutor gives her an edge. She’s not afraid of a debate, she’s not afraid of confrontation, and she’s certainly not afraid to make the tough decisions.

Now, some will argue that she’s too tough, too direct, or perhaps too ambitious—a classic trope used to undermine women in power. But frankly, the world is a mess right now. Climate change is wreaking havoc, inequality is skyrocketing, and democracy itself feels like it’s teetering on the brink. Do we really want a President who’s going to sit on the fence and hum and haw their way through four years? Harris, by contrast, has a sense of urgency that aligns with the times. Her policies may not be to everyone’s taste, but at least she’s got some. From criminal justice reform to climate action, she’s consistently pushed for change in a way that suggests she’s not just playing at politics—she genuinely cares.

And then there’s her stance on global leadership, which, let’s face it, has been sorely lacking in recent years. America, once the self-appointed leader of the free world, has been floundering, retreating into itself in a way that has left the rest of us staring at the wreckage. Harris, however, represents a return to diplomacy, a return to sensible conversations, and a return to partnerships that are about more than just tweeting and chest-thumping. She’s been unafraid to call out Russia’s antics, China’s human rights abuses, and the global imbalance that’s seen the rich nations prosper at the expense of everyone else. In short, she brings a level of gravitas that’s sorely needed.

But beyond the politics, there’s something deeper that makes me root for Harris: her humanity. She’s not the type to hide behind clichés and platitudes. Whether she’s comforting a grieving family or speaking candidly about her own experiences, there’s a rawness that makes her stand out. It’s not about perfection; it’s about connection. And in a world where politicians often feel more like avatars than actual people, Harris’s ability to relate to everyday struggles is worth its weight in gold.

Some will say I’m dreaming, that Harris’s chances are slim, and that America’s not ready. And perhaps they’re right. Perhaps the US isn’t quite there yet. But here’s the thing: backing Kamala Harris isn’t about playing it safe. It’s about believing that a different kind of politics is possible—a politics that isn’t afraid to get its hands dirty, to admit mistakes, and to fight for something better.

Harris embodies the resilience, intelligence, and compassion that we desperately need in a leader. She’s the kind of figure who, for all her flaws, genuinely seems to care about the future in a way that feels both authentic and inspiring. So, while others might be content with more of the same, I’m putting my chips on Harris. Because if there’s one thing I’ve learned from watching her journey, it’s that she’s not just in this to win; she’s in this to change the game entirely. And frankly, that’s the kind of boldness we could all use right now.

Read more:
Why I Am Backing Kamala Harris in the US Presidential Election

As the leaves turn crisp and golden this October, the nation’s business owners will be bracing themselves for a political event that could redefine their future: the unveiling of Rachel Reeves’ first budget as Chancellor of the Exchequer.

Reeves, a figure who has climbed the Labour ranks with a reputation for being both sharp and shrewd, has now ascended to one of the most critical positions in government. But should British business owners be quaking in their boardrooms, wondering what she has up her sleeve?

Rachel Reeves, the first female Chancellor since the office’s creation in 1316 (yes, even that’s older than Mick Jagger), comes with an air of gravitas that suggests she’s not in this for a ceremonial tea party. No, Reeves means business—literally. Her background as an economist at the Bank of England and her tenure as Chair of the Business, Energy and Industrial Strategy Committee imply that she knows her way around a spreadsheet. But here’s the rub: it’s not her competency that’s in question; it’s her ideology.

For years, business owners have been habituated to the Tory playbook of tax cuts and deregulation—a steady drip-feed of policies designed to keep the wheels of capitalism greased and spinning. Reeves, however, has signalled a departure from this laissez-faire approach, advocating for what she calls “responsible capitalism.” The phrase itself sounds almost quaint, as if she’s promising to take the wild, reckless teenager that is British capitalism and turn it into a sensible, well-behaved adult. But is that really what business needs?

Let’s get one thing straight: businesses thrive on certainty. And while Reeves has vowed to maintain a competitive tax regime, she’s also made it clear that she intends to crack down on tax avoidance, increase public investment, and push for a more equitable distribution of wealth. On paper, these goals are laudable—who wouldn’t want a fairer society? But in practice, they may spell trouble for those who have grown accustomed to the status quo.

Take, for instance, Reeves’ plan to close the loopholes that allow multinationals to shift profits offshore and avoid paying their fair share of tax. It’s a noble endeavour, but one that could have unintended consequences. Companies that have relied on these mechanisms to maximise profits might find themselves in a tighter financial bind, forced to cut costs or, worse, consider relocating to more tax-friendly jurisdictions. The fear is that Reeves’ brand of responsible capitalism could lead to a flight of capital, with businesses seeking refuge in countries where the taxman’s reach isn’t quite so long.

Then there’s the issue of public investment. Reeves has committed to ramping up spending on infrastructure, green energy, and technology—areas that are undoubtedly in need of a cash injection. However, the question that looms large is: who’s footing the bill? If Reeves opts to fund these projects through borrowing, she risks increasing the national debt, which could lead to higher interest rates and inflation. On the other hand, if she decides to raise taxes—particularly on higher earners and corporations—she might stifle the very entrepreneurship and innovation she’s aiming to support.

And let’s not forget her commitment to workers’ rights. Reeves has promised to strengthen labour laws, enhance job security, and ensure that the minimum wage keeps pace with the cost of living. Again, these are commendable goals, but they come with a price tag for employers. Increased regulation and higher wage costs could force some businesses, particularly SMEs, to make tough choices—either absorb the costs and take a hit to their profit margins or pass them on to consumers in the form of higher prices. Neither option is particularly appealing in an economy already grappling with the cost-of-living crisis.

But perhaps the most significant concern for business owners is the broader economic environment in which this budget will be delivered. The UK economy is still reeling from the effects of Brexit, the pandemic, and the war in Ukraine. Inflation remains stubbornly high, and growth has been sluggish at best. Reeves’ budget will need to walk a tightrope—stimulating growth without overheating the economy, supporting the most vulnerable without deterring investment.

Yet, for all the uncertainties, there’s a case to be made that Rachel Reeves’ approach could be exactly what the UK economy needs. The past decade has seen a growing divide between the haves and the have-nots, with wealth concentrated in the hands of a few while many struggle to make ends meet. By addressing these inequalities and investing in the future, Reeves could lay the groundwork for a more sustainable and resilient economy—one where businesses can thrive in the long term, rather than merely surviving from quarter to quarter.

So, should UK business owners be worried about what Rachel Reeves has up her sleeve? The answer is: it depends. If they’re willing to adapt, innovate, and embrace a more responsible form of capitalism, they might find that Reeves’ budget offers new opportunities rather than threats. But for those who’ve grown comfortable with the old ways of doing things, this new chapter in British economic policy might just be a wake-up call. After all, as the saying goes, change is the only constant—and in the world of business, those who fail to adapt are often left behind.

In the end, whether Reeves’ budget is a boon or a bane will depend not just on the numbers she presents in October, but on the response of the business community. Will they see her as a harbinger of doom or a catalyst for positive change? Only time will tell. But one thing’s for sure: this autumn, all eyes will be on the Chancellor—and what she pulls out of her proverbial hat.

Read more:
Should UK Business Owners Be Worried About Rachel Reeves’ First Budget?

Angela Rayner, the Deputy Prime Minister and Labour’s no-nonsense champion of workers’ rights, seems intent on delivering her promises with a zeal that would make even the most ardent trade unionist blush.

The newly proposed Fair Work Agency (FWA), a sort of regulatory Cerberus with “real teeth,” as she so vividly puts it, is designed to ensure that no company dares to exploit its employees without facing swift and brutal justice. But while the vision is noble, the execution threatens to leave Britain’s law-abiding businesses suffocating under a deluge of red tape.

We’re all for fairness in the workplace, of course. No one’s saying employees should be left at the mercy of unscrupulous bosses. But there’s something worryingly off-kilter about Labour’s latest brainchild. The good folks of Britain’s business community—those who actually bother to follow the rules—now face the dismal prospect of being buried under mountains of paperwork just to prove they’re not breaking the law. And for what? So that the government can boast about cracking down on the few bad apples?

The problem, as any seasoned executive will tell you, isn’t with the intent but with the outcome. New regulations often come with a price tag that the virtuous majority ends up paying. This isn’t just about a few extra forms or a minor inconvenience; we’re talking thousands of pounds in compliance costs that could spell the end for some smaller firms. And for what? The illusion of progress?

Imagine a world where you’re doing everything by the book, only to find yourself spending more time proving you’re compliant than actually running your business. A world where the regulators, overwhelmed by their own bureaucracy, lack the resources to go after the real villains. Sound familiar? It’s a scenario that plays out far too often, and Labour’s latest proposal seems poised to repeat the mistake on an even grander scale.

Take, for instance, the current state of play. Ben Willmott, head of public policy at the Chartered Institute of Personnel and Development (CIPD), points out that the UK’s labour market enforcement system is already creaking under the weight of its responsibilities. Employment tribunals are backlogged, leaving workers and employers alike in limbo for months on end. Inspections on the minimum wage? You’d be lucky to see one every few centuries, unless you’re in a sector like accommodation and food services, where the odds of a visit improve slightly to once every 200 years. And now, with the FWA looming on the horizon, one can only imagine the chaos that awaits.

The notion that more regulation equates to better outcomes is a fallacy that Labour seems determined to ignore. What’s really needed is smarter enforcement—targeted action that focuses on the wrongdoers without ensnaring everyone else in a web of unnecessary regulation. Willmott is right when he suggests that Labour’s first priority should be to fix the existing system rather than piling on new rules. More inspectors, yes, but also more support for businesses to ensure they understand and comply with the law without needing to hire a team of lawyers to interpret it for them.

The biggest losers in this whole affair are likely to be SMEs, the very backbone of the British economy. SMEs are already juggling enough challenges, from supply chain issues to rising costs, without the added burden of proving they’re not criminals. As Willmott succinctly puts it, even the most well-intentioned business owner could find themselves caught out by something as mundane as failing to have a written employment contract. A heavy-handed approach from the FWA could see these firms, which account for nearly two-thirds of UK employment, unwittingly fall foul of the law, with devastating consequences.

There’s a dangerous irony at play here. The FWA is supposed to protect workers, yet by making life unbearable for honest employers, it could end up doing precisely the opposite. Businesses that are forced to divert time and resources towards compliance may find themselves cutting corners elsewhere—perhaps in areas like wages, benefits, or investment in growth. The net result? A weaker economy and, paradoxically, fewer opportunities for the very workers Labour claims to be championing.

So where does that leave us? Labour’s plans, while well-meaning, are at serious risk of being too blunt an instrument. The focus should be on creating a business environment that encourages compliance through clarity and support, not one that drives companies to despair with its sheer complexity. If Rayner and her colleagues want to make a real difference, they’d do well to listen to the concerns of the business community and refine their approach before it’s too late.

Because let’s be clear: the last thing this country needs is an agency that, in its pursuit of fairness, ends up being the very thing that strangles the life out of the businesses that keep it afloat. If the FWA isn’t careful, it could become the cure that’s worse than the disease. And that’s a price no one should have to pay.

Read more:
Angela Rayner’s Fair Work Agency: The Cure Worse Than the Disease?

Joe Biden’s decision to step away from the 2024 US Presidential election is not only the right personal choice, given his obvious age-ravaged frailty, but the right decision for the Democratic Party.

In a political landscape increasingly fraught with division and peril, the Democrats must now focus on swiftly anointing a robust successor to counter the alarming prospect of a Trump-Vance ticket. This potential Republican duo, if victorious, poses a significant threat not only to the stability of US politics but also to global democracy and diplomatic norms.

Firstly, let’s talk about Joe Biden. A man who, despite the ceaseless barrage of criticisms, has managed to steer the ship of state through some of the most turbulent waters in recent memory. His administration has faced down a pandemic, an insurrection, and a myriad of other crises with a steady, albeit sometimes shaky, hand. But Biden is not a young man. The presidency ages its occupants in dog years, and Biden’s age and health have been increasingly scrutinised. By stepping aside, he acknowledges the need for fresh leadership and the brutal reality of the physical and mental demands of the presidency. It’s a rare moment of self-awareness in a field often marked by stubborn clinging to power.

The Democratic Party, now free from the encumbrance of defending an aging incumbent, must act swiftly to consolidate its power around a fresh and dynamic candidate.

And why is this so critical? Enter stage right, the Trump-Vance ticket. The prospect of a Donald Trump and J.D. Vance presidency is enough to send shivers down the spine of anyone, living and breathing on planet earth. Trump, a figure whose presidency was marked by divisiveness, unpredictability, and a flirtation with authoritarianism, paired with Vance, a man who has pivoted sharply from an anti-Trump conservative to a staunch supporter, is a nightmarish scenario. It’s a combination that threatens to unpick the delicate fabric of American democracy and, by extension, destabilise the global order.

For the Democrats, the urgency of identifying and rallying behind a successor cannot be overstated. This successor must embody a vision of progress, inclusivity, and resilience. Figures like Vice President Kamala Harris, Transportation Secretary Pete Buttigieg, or even rising stars like Governor Gavin Newsom must now take centre stage, presenting a united front against the looming spectre of Trumpism. The party must not allow the primaries to devolve into a fractious battle that weakens the eventual nominee. Instead, it should focus on building a cohesive narrative that underscores the successes of the Biden administration while charting a forward-looking agenda that addresses the pressing concerns of everyday Americans.

Moreover, the Democratic Party’s strategy must also encompass a robust voter mobilisation effort. The 2020 election demonstrated the power of grassroots organising, particularly in battleground states. This momentum must be sustained and amplified, ensuring that voter suppression efforts are vigorously countered and that the electorate is fully engaged. The stakes could not be higher, and complacency is a luxury the Democrats cannot afford.

Furthermore, a Trump-Vance ticket poses a direct threat to the sanctity of democratic institutions. Trump’s attempts to overturn the results of the 2020 election and his influence over the January 6 insurrection are well-documented. Vance, who once criticized Trump, now echoes his baseless claims of election fraud. This duo could erode the already fragile trust in American electoral integrity, potentially leading to further civil unrest and weakening the democratic norms that underpin not just the US, but many other democracies around the world.

A Trump-Vance administration would likely double down on the isolationist, nationalist policies that characterized Trump’s first term. This is bad news for global trade, international alliances, and collective security. The world saw the fallout from Trump’s “America First” policies – alienation of allies, emboldenment of autocrats, and a retreat from international cooperation on issues like climate change and public health. A second round, with a potentially more ideologically aligned vice president in Vance, could be even more destructive.

The implications for Europe, Asia, and the broader international community cannot be overstated. The US, for all its flaws, is still a linchpin in the international system. A destabilized America under Trump and Vance could embolden adversaries like Russia and China, while leaving allies uncertain and vulnerable. It could mean the unravelling of decades of diplomatic and strategic efforts aimed at creating a stable, rules-based international order.

It is essential for the Democratic Party to act swiftly and decisively. They must coalesce around a candidate who can counter the Trump-Vance threat with a vision that is both aspirational and achievable, one that can unite a divided nation and restore faith in its democratic processes. This candidate needs to be more than just a reaction to Trump; they need to offer a forward-looking agenda that addresses the concerns of all Americans, from the urban centres to the rural heartlands.

Read more:
Biden’s Exit: The Right Move for the Democratic Party and the World

In a world where rhetoric is as valued as policy, one might expect a regal missive such as the King’s Speech to brim with assurances and incentives for our nation’s entrepreneurial spirits.

Alas, the latest edition of this ceremonious address delivered naught but disappointment to the enterprising souls of Britain. For those of us who had our hopes pinned on a royal proclamation of support, the silence was deafening.

Picture this: the King’s Speech, an opportunity for the government to lay out its grand vision, to rally the troops, and to offer the clarion call of encouragement to those daring enough to invest in the uncertain waters of new business ventures. Yet, what did we receive? A tepid, insipid reiteration of familiar promises and a glaring omission of any substantial support for the business community. This, from a government that supposedly champions the cause of enterprise and innovation.

Simon Rothenberg of Blick Rothenberg articulated the collective dismay succinctly. Entrepreneurs, he noted, are in a state of anxiety about the new government’s potential impact on their ventures. The King’s Speech failed to provide the much-needed reassurance. There was no mention of business taxation, no clarification on corporation tax, capital gains tax, or VAT. Business leaders are left in a limbo, anxiously awaiting the Budget for any semblance of certainty. It’s akin to waiting for a bus in the pouring rain, with no timetable in sight.

The absence of a clear, supportive narrative for businesses is compounded by other governmental proposals that could exacerbate the challenges faced by British enterprises. Take the proposed changes to the Apprentice Levy, for instance. These adjustments threaten to disadvantage businesses that currently benefit from government support in training and developing their staff. It’s a classic case of giving with one hand while taking away with the other, and it leaves businesses caught in a precarious balancing act.

Moreover, the King’s Speech incorporated proposals from the Labour Party’s election manifesto to enhance employment protections. While these measures are a triumph for trade unions, they spell potential trouble for businesses grappling with increased costs and reduced flexibility. One cannot help but marvel at the irony: a government that professes to support business simultaneously imposes regulations that might stifle their very growth.

Consider the proposed extension of the National Living Wage to all adults, including those 18-19 years old with no prior work experience. On the surface, it seems a noble endeavour, a step towards equity. But scratch beneath the surface, and it becomes clear that this could act as a deterrent for businesses considering hiring young, inexperienced staff. The costs of recruiting and training these individuals would skyrocket, undermining the existing system that acknowledges the need for differential wage rates for younger employees.

Trainees, by their very nature, require significant investment from employers to bring them up to speed. The current wage system reflects this reality, offering a pragmatic approach to fostering young talent. Yet, the government’s new proposal threatens to disrupt this delicate balance, potentially discouraging businesses from investing in the workforce of the future. It’s a shortsighted move that could have long-term repercussions.

In this context, the King’s Speech could have been a beacon of hope. It could have addressed these concerns head-on, offering clear policies and incentives to bolster the confidence of entrepreneurs. Instead, it skirted around the critical issues, leaving the business community in a state of uncertainty.

One might argue that the King’s Speech is merely a ceremonial affair, not the place for detailed policy announcements. Yet, symbolism matters. The speech sets the tone for the government’s agenda, and its failure to acknowledge the pressing needs of businesses sends a troubling message. It suggests a disconnect between the government’s proclamations of support for enterprise and the reality of its legislative priorities.

In a time of economic flux, with Brexit still casting a long shadow and global competition intensifying, Britain’s entrepreneurs need more than vague assurances. They need concrete policies, tax incentives, and a regulatory framework that encourages innovation and growth. They need to know that the government has their back, that their risks will be rewarded, and that their contributions to the economy are valued.

As it stands, the King’s Speech offered none of this. It was a missed opportunity, a disappointing silence where there should have been a resounding declaration of support for the lifeblood of our economy – the entrepreneurs. If the government truly wishes to foster a thriving business environment, it must do better. It must listen to the concerns of the business community and act decisively. Otherwise, we risk stifling the very spirit of innovation that has long been the hallmark of British enterprise.

Read more:
Nothing in the King’s Speech: A Call to Arms for Entrepreneurs

Ah, the Labour Party, ever the beacon of fairness and redistribution, has yet again graced us with a stroke of genius. This time, it’s a plan to slap a VAT on private schools, those bastions of privilege and top-tier education.

Now, while the sight of Etonians and Harrovians squirming at the prospect of higher fees might bring a smirk to the faces of many, the ripple effects of such a policy deserve a closer examination. Could this lead to a surge of secular parents suddenly ‘finding religion’ to secure a spot for their offspring in church schools, thus dodging the financial blow? It’s a fascinating, if somewhat cynical, possibility.

Labour’s proposal to levy VAT on private school fees is not without merit. The intention is clear: generate revenue and level the playing field. Private schools, with their vast resources, extensive facilities, and polished alumni networks, do embody the stark inequalities within the British education system. Adding 20% to the already hefty fees could theoretically divert some funds to the underfunded state sector, potentially improving the quality of education for the many, not just the privileged few.

However, as with many well-intentioned policies, the devil is in the details. Private school parents are a resourceful lot. Faced with the prospect of even higher fees, one can imagine a scenario where the quest for an affordable yet high-quality education leads them to the gates of the Church of England – or indeed any religious institution offering state-funded education. Church schools, after all, have a reputation for maintaining rigorous academic standards, often rivalling their private counterparts.

So, are we on the brink of a religious revival, spurred not by a spiritual awakening but by a fiscal one? Picture the scene: the PTA meeting replete with parents who, until yesterday, couldn’t distinguish between a psalm and a parable, now eagerly attending Sunday services, volunteering at church events, and dusting off their old confirmation certificates. Cynical? Perhaps. But far from improbable.

Church schools, with their dual commitment to education and moral instruction, have long been a preferred alternative for parents seeking more than what the average state school offers. These institutions, often oversubscribed, already have rigorous selection criteria, frequently prioritising children from practising Christian families. In response to a sudden influx of new ‘believers’, churches could find themselves inundated with applications, leading to a comical, if somewhat uncomfortable, scenario of competitive piety.

I am broadly able to speak about this from the point of knowledge having been a governor for period of the secondary faith school that I myself attended growing up. As even more than a decade ago rumours were that parents attended church or synagogue for the ‘required’ period just to obtain the requisite ‘Green stamp’ letter from the vicar or rabbi and then oddly their faith evaporated once little Johnny or Jane had packed their school bag on their first day.

This potential surge in faux religiosity raises several questions. For one, it challenges the integrity of both the educational and religious institutions involved. Schools may find their ethos diluted by families whose primary motivation is financial rather than spiritual, potentially undermining the communal values that define these establishments. For churches, the moral quandary of accommodating these new ‘members’ could strain their resources and alter their congregational dynamics.

Moreover, this shift could exacerbate existing inequities within the state system. Church schools, already advantaged by more engaged parent bodies and additional funding, might become even more exclusive, leaving the truly comprehensive schools to cope with a disproportionate share of the challenges associated with educating diverse and often disadvantaged populations. The very aim of Labour’s policy – to reduce inequality – could, paradoxically, result in a new form of segregation.

Of course, some might argue that parents will always find ways to navigate the system to their advantage, and that church schools have long been a part of this landscape. The new policy would merely add another layer to the complex interplay of education, economics, and faith. Yet, the broader societal implications cannot be ignored. Encouraging disingenuous behaviour in the pursuit of educational advantage sends a troubling message about the value we place on honesty and integrity.

The real solution, one might argue, lies not in punitive taxation but in genuine investment in the state sector. Smaller class sizes, better teacher pay, improved facilities – these are the changes that can truly level the playing field. If state schools were sufficiently funded and resourced, the appeal of private and church schools might naturally wane, making the educational landscape more equitable without resorting to fiscal sleight of hand.

So whilst Labour’s plan to impose VAT on private school fees may seem like a step towards greater fairness, it risks triggering unintended consequences. The spectre of parents ‘finding religion’ to secure a better education for their children highlights the complexity of the issue. Rather than driving families to disingenuous displays of faith, a more comprehensive approach to education reform is needed – one that ensures all schools, regardless of their funding model, can provide an excellent education. Only then can we hope to create a truly level playing field for all our children.

Read more:
Could Labour’s plan to put VAT on private schools lead to parents ‘Finding Religion’

The announcement of JD Vance as Donald Trump’s running mate for the 2024 presidential election isn’t just another blip in the relentless churn of news. No, it’s a potential turning point with far-reaching implications for both America and the world.

You see, Vance’s steadfast support for the oil and gas industry, coupled with his open disdain for solar power and electric vehicles, is well documented. His views on climate change, mirroring Trump’s flippant dismissal of the issue, stand in stark contrast to the progressive climate policies we hold dear in the UK. Prime Minister Keir Starmer has made it abundantly clear that combating climate change is a top priority. This ideological clash could set the stage for significant tension between our two nations.

Impact on Renewable Energy Initiatives

Should Trump and Vance clinch the election, we can expect a swift reversal of the Biden administration’s renewable energy initiatives. This potential pivot back to fossil fuels in the US is troubling on multiple fronts. For the UK, which has committed to achieving net-zero emissions by 2050 and invested heavily in renewable energy, this presents a real conundrum.

Firstly, global efforts to combat climate change could lose precious momentum. The US is a linchpin in these efforts, and its regression could embolden other countries to deprioritise renewable energy investments, making it far more challenging to meet international climate goals. One can almost hear the collective sigh of relief from oil barons worldwide at the thought of a US administration turning its back on green energy.

Secondly, UK businesses in the renewable energy sector might find themselves facing stiffer competition from a revitalised US oil and gas industry. This could impact the profitability and feasibility of UK renewable energy projects, particularly if US policies drive down global oil and gas prices. The delicate balance of the renewable energy market could be tipped, leaving UK initiatives floundering in the wake of cheaper, more abundant fossil fuels.

Strain on the US-UK Special Relationship

The US-UK special relationship has always been a cornerstone of our foreign policy, but diverging views on such a critical issue could put this bond to the test. Prime Minister Starmer’s administration is unwavering in its commitment to sustainability and innovation in renewable energy, while a Trump-Vance administration would likely march to the beat of a very different drum.

This ideological chasm could hinder collaborative efforts on climate change, a key area of cooperation between our nations. Joint initiatives, funding for green technologies, and shared research might all be at risk. The ideological divide might also spill over into other areas of the bilateral relationship, complicating trade negotiations, defence cooperation, and broader geopolitical strategies. It’s not hard to envision a scenario where the special relationship becomes strained, with each side eyeing the other warily across a growing gulf of policy differences.

Looking Forward

As we grapple with the escalating impacts of climate change, international cooperation is more crucial than ever. The potential election of a Trump-Vance administration feels like a step backwards, threatening to unravel years of painstaking progress. For the UK, maintaining its leadership in renewable energy and climate change mitigation will require deft navigation of these complex dynamics.

Diplomatic efforts must be redoubled to find common ground and mitigate the negative impacts of US policy shifts. It will be essential for the UK to strengthen alliances with other like-minded nations to keep advancing the global renewable energy agenda. The stakes are high, and the path forward fraught with challenges, but the urgency of the climate crisis demands that we rise to the occasion.

In the end, while Vance’s ascension to the ticket might thrill the MAGA crowd, it casts a long shadow over international efforts to combat climate change. The UK must brace itself for this potential policy collision, ready to lead with resilience and resolve. After all, the future of our planet depends on it.

Read more:
JD Vance as Trump’s Running Mate: A Climate Policy Collision Course?

In the fast-paced world of public relations, timing is everything. As someone who has spent years navigating the intricacies of media relations and crisis management, I cannot stress enough how critical speed is when it comes to getting your name featured in news stories.

This is particularly true in the context of events with immense public interest, such as the recent UK general election.

Why Speed Matters

When news breaks, journalists are on high alert, looking for fresh angles, expert opinions, and immediate reactions. The window of opportunity to provide these insights is often measured in minutes, not days. Sending a reaction comment four days after a major event is not just ineffective—it’s a colossal waste of time and resources.

Imagine this scenario: A significant political event unfolds, and your PR company drafts a perfect response. However, it sits in their inbox for days, only to be sent out when the news cycle has moved on. By then, the media has already published numerous stories and moved on to the next big thing. Your carefully crafted comment is now irrelevant, buried under a pile of newer updates.

The Financial Cost of Delays

For SMEs, every pound counts. Hiring a PR company can be a significant investment, but if they are slow to respond, you might as well take that money out to the car park and set fire to it. At least then, you’ll get some warmth in this unseasonable British summer. A delayed reaction not only fails to capitalise on the immediate news cycle but also wastes the budget allocated for timely PR interventions.

Actionable Advice for SMEs

Set Clear Expectations: Ensure that your PR company understands the importance of speed. Set clear guidelines for how quickly they need to respond to major events.

Prepare in Advance: Work with your PR team to prepare draft responses for various scenarios. Having pre-approved comments can save precious time when news breaks.

Stay Informed: Keep abreast of major news events, especially those relevant to your industry. This allows you to provide timely and relevant reactions.

Leverage Social Media: Sometimes, your official channels might be slower. Use social media platforms to share immediate reactions while your PR team crafts a more detailed response.

Evaluate Performance: Regularly review the performance of your PR company. If they consistently fail to deliver timely responses, it might be time to reconsider your partnership.

In the realm of public relations, particularly during high-stakes events like general elections, speed is not just an advantage—it’s a necessity. SMEs must ensure their PR companies are equipped to act swiftly and effectively. Delayed reactions are a waste of time and money, undermining the very purpose of engaging PR professionals. By prioritizing speed and setting clear expectations, SMEs can enhance their media presence and make the most of every opportunity.

Remember, in PR, being second is not an option. Be first, be fast, and make your mark.

Read more:
The Importance of Speed in PR: A Wake-Up Call for UK SMEs

When Flavio Briatore was ousted from Formula 1 in 2009 for his role in the infamous “Crashgate” scandal, it seemed a clear message was sent: the sport would not tolerate actions that compromised the safety and integrity of its competitions.

Briatore’s orchestration of Nelson Piquet Jr.’s deliberate crash during the 2008 Singapore Grand Prix put lives at risk and manipulated race outcomes, leading to his indefinite ban by the FIA. Yet, here we are in 2024, with Briatore not only back in the paddock but also formally reinstated as an executive adviser to Alpine.

This decision to bring Briatore back into the fold of Formula 1 raises significant ethical questions about the sport’s values and its commitment to integrity.

The initial ban, although later overturned by a French court, left an indelible mark on Briatore’s reputation. Despite his continuous presence around the paddock and ongoing involvement in driver management, his formal re-entry into an official role signals a troubling inconsistency in the sport’s moral standards.

Briatore’s history of questionable ethics extends beyond Formula 1. In the 1980s, he was convicted of multiple counts of fraud, receiving two prison sentences. In 1984, a court in Bergamo found him guilty of various counts of fraud, fining him and sentencing him to one year and six months in prison, later reduced to one year on appeal.

In 1986, Briatore was sentenced to three years in Milan for fraud and conspiracy, having been part of a team that set up rigged gambling games using fake playing cards. These elaborate cons ensnared victims in rigged games, yielding enormous profits for the perpetrators.

After an appeal in 1987, the sentence was reduced to one year and two months. To avoid imprisonment, Briatore lived as a fugitive in Saint Thomas, Virgin Islands, never serving his prison time, and returned to the EU after both convictions were extinguished by amnesty. In 2010, a Turin court ordered Briatore rehabilitated, extinguishing “any criminal effect of the conviction.”

During his fugitive status, Briatore maintained close ties with Benetton, opening stores in the Virgin Islands and later being appointed director of Benetton’s American operations. Under his direction, Benetton experienced a boom in popularity in the US, with 800 stores by 1989. However, complaints from store owners about competition led to a reduction to 200 stores, prompting Briatore to seek new business ventures. In 1999, the Corriere della Sera wrongfully reported that Briatore had been arrested in Nairobi on suspicion of fraud relating to real estate in Kenya. Briatore successfully sued for libel, proving the allegation untrue and receiving compensation.

Contrast this with the treatment of Christian Horner, the Red Bull team principal, who faced severe backlash over accusations of controlling behaviour towards a female employee. Despite being cleared by an independent investigation, Horner’s reputation took a hit, and his peers called for transparency and adherence to positive values. The discrepancy in responses to these two figures is striking.

When Briatore’s return was announced, Alpine’s team principal, Bruno Famin, was quick to dismiss concerns about Briatore’s past. “I don’t really mind about the past,” he stated, emphasising the potential benefits of Briatore’s experience and connections. Famin’s perspective, echoed by other team principals, suggests a disturbing willingness to overlook serious past misconduct in favour of perceived immediate gains.

Toto Wolff of Mercedes, Fred Vasseur of Ferrari, and Alessandro Alunni Bravi of Stake all underscored Briatore’s talents and contributions to the sport, seemingly brushing aside the gravity of his previous actions. This collective endorsement starkly contrasts with their earlier demands for accountability in Horner’s case, highlighting a selective approach to moral scrutiny.

Formula 1’s ethical landscape appears increasingly influenced by commercial interests. Since Liberty Media acquired the sport’s commercial rights, the focus has been on expansion and profitability. The Netflix series “Drive to Survive” has significantly boosted F1’s popularity, attracting a diverse and global audience. This surge in viewership has translated into increased sponsorship, investment, and overall value for the teams and the sport.

It raises the question: Is Liberty Media’s apparent indifference towards Briatore’s past a reflection of a broader strategy where value addition trumps moral considerations? The willingness to turn a blind eye to Briatore’s indiscretions might indicate that, as long as it adds value, the sport’s moral compass can be conveniently adjusted.

What does this tell us about Formula 1’s ethical landscape? The sport appears to have a malleable moral compass, one that is influenced by friendships, financial interests, and the allure of strategic advantages. When it comes to figures like Briatore, whose connections and expertise are seen as valuable, past indiscretions are conveniently forgotten. Meanwhile, others, like Horner, face intense scrutiny for issues that, while serious, were investigated and cleared through proper channels.

Formula 1 has made strides in presenting itself as a sport committed to diversity and positive values, but the reappointment of Briatore undermines these efforts. It sends a conflicting message to fans and stakeholders about what the sport truly stands for. If the safety of drivers and the integrity of competitions can be compromised without lasting consequences, where do we draw the line?

In welcoming Briatore back, Formula 1 risks eroding trust and credibility. The sport must reconcile its actions with its proclaimed values, ensuring that its commitment to integrity is not swayed by convenience or the prospect of short-term gains. Only then can it genuinely uphold the standards it professes to champion.

Read more:
Formula 1’s Selective Morality: The Flavio Briatore Paradox

In many parts of the world, wealth is celebrated and admired. This is especially true in Asia, Africa, and the United States, where the “American Dream” ethos fosters the belief that hard work and ingenuity can lead to fortune.

This aspiration has driven the US to become the world’s most dynamic economy. Yet, in the UK and much of Europe, particularly in northern countries like Norway and Sweden, there’s a growing suspicion and hostility towards the wealthy.

Misconceptions About the Wealthy

The super-rich are often depicted as societal villains responsible for inequality, tax evasion, and even undermining democracy. This portrayal is prevalent in media and films, where billionaires are frequently cast as greedy, morally dubious characters who exploit legal loopholes to avoid paying taxes. As a tax lawyer with over 25 years of experience advising the wealthy, I can offer a different perspective on these popular myths.

Myth 1: The Wealthy Pay Lower Taxes

One common myth is that millionaires pay a lower effective tax rate than their cleaners. This misconception stems from misunderstandings about how the tax system works. In the UK, general income, such as earnings and interest, is taxed at higher rates than dividends. While dividends face a top rate of 39.35%, they are taxed twice – first at the corporate level and then again when received by shareholders. This can result in an effective tax rate of up to 54.85%, compared to the 45% rate for general income.

Capital gains, another significant part of wealthy individuals’ income, are taxed at rates between 10% and 24% for all taxpayers, with no special lower rates for the rich. For example, a person with £1 million of income, split between earnings, dividends, and capital gains, would pay an effective tax rate of 38.1%. In contrast, someone with £50,000 of income would pay an effective rate of 10.3%. The wealthier you are, the more tax you pay, both in quantity and effective rate, reflecting the progressive nature of our tax system.

Myth 2: Tax Evasion is Rampant Among the Rich

Another myth is that paying tax is voluntary for the rich, thanks to their access to top tax lawyers who exploit loopholes. However, genuine loopholes are rare, and any that exist are countered by HMRC’s “General Anti-Abuse Rule.” Aggressive tax avoidance schemes are not only unethical but also largely ineffective under current regulations.

Myth 3: Non-Doms Exploit Tax Loopholes

The idea that non-domiciled individuals (non-doms) exploit tax loopholes is also misleading. The non-dom regime has been part of the UK’s tax system since 1799 and is not an unintended gap in legislation. Non-doms contribute significantly to the UK economy, paying an average of £123,000 in tax annually. In total, non-doms contribute nearly £8.5 billion in UK taxes, not including additional business-related taxes. While the UK phases out this system, countries like Italy and Greece are introducing their own non-dom regimes to attract wealthy foreigners.

The Contributions of the Wealthy

Overall, the top 1% of taxpayers in the UK pay nearly 29% of all income tax, while the top 10% pay 60%. These contributions fund essential public services, including healthcare. Without these taxpayers, the financial burden on the rest of society would be significantly higher.

Changing the Narrative

It’s time to shift the narrative around wealth. Instead of vilifying the wealthy with terms like “filthy rich,” we should celebrate their success and contributions. Recognising the positive impact of the wealthy on our economy and society could foster a more supportive environment that encourages prosperity and innovation.

Read more:
Britain Should Celebrate the Wealthy – Not Tax Them Out of the Country

In today’s fast-paced business world, SMEs face numerous challenges in their quest for growth and success.

As we step into 2024, it’s more important than ever for these businesses to master the art of business growth. The strategies that worked in the past may no longer be effective, and new approaches are needed to thrive in the ever-evolving market.

Here we will delve deep into the essential strategies that SMEs should adopt to conquer the challenges and unlock their potential for growth in 2024. From leveraging digital marketing to harnessing the power of data analytics, we explore the key tactics that can make a tangible difference. By embracing innovation, fostering a customer-centric mindset, and developing robust partnerships, SMEs can position themselves as competitive players in their industry.

Understanding the Current Business Landscape

The first step to mastering the art of business growth in 2024 is understanding the current business landscape. The world is rapidly changing, and SMEs must keep up with the latest trends and developments to stay relevant. One of the key factors shaping the business landscape is the advancement of technology. From artificial intelligence to blockchain, emerging technologies are disrupting industries and creating new opportunities for growth.

Moreover, the COVID-19 pandemic has accelerated the digital transformation across industries. SMEs need to adapt to the new normal and embrace digital solutions to thrive in the post-pandemic era. This means investing in digital infrastructure, leveraging cloud computing, and adopting remote work practices. By embracing technology, SMEs can streamline their operations, improve efficiency, and tap into new markets.

Furthermore, globalization has opened up new doors for SMEs. With the rise of e-commerce and cross-border trade, businesses can now reach customers all over the world. However, this also means facing increased competition from both local and international players. To succeed in this globalized market, SMEs need to differentiate themselves by offering unique value propositions, delivering exceptional customer experiences, and building strong brand identities.

Identifying Growth Opportunities for SMEs

To master the art of business growth, SMEs must identify and capitalize on growth opportunities in their industry. This requires a deep understanding of market dynamics, customer needs, and emerging trends. Conducting market research and analysis can provide valuable insights into untapped market segments, unmet customer needs, and potential areas for innovation.

One growth opportunity that SMEs should consider is diversification. By expanding their product or service offerings, businesses can reach new customer segments and increase revenue streams. This could involve developing new products, entering new markets, or targeting different customer demographics. However, it’s important for SMEs to carefully assess the feasibility and profitability of diversification strategies to avoid spreading resources too thin.

Another growth opportunity lies in strategic partnerships and collaborations. By forming alliances with complementary businesses, SMEs can leverage each other’s strengths, share resources, and tap into new markets. This could involve partnering with suppliers, distributors, or even competitors to create win-win situations. Strategic partnerships can also provide access to new technologies, expertise, and distribution channels, enabling SMEs to scale their operations more effectively.

Lastly, SMEs should consider the potential of international expansion. With the rise of e-commerce and globalization, businesses can now expand their reach beyond national borders. This could involve setting up international offices, establishing distribution networks, or entering into joint ventures with local partners. However, international expansion comes with its own set of challenges, such as cultural differences, regulatory compliance, and logistical complexities. SMEs must carefully evaluate the risks and rewards before embarking on this growth strategy.

Developing a Growth Strategy for Your SME

Once growth opportunities have been identified, SMEs need to develop a comprehensive growth strategy. This involves setting clear goals, defining actionable steps, and allocating resources effectively. A growth strategy should be aligned with the overall vision and values of the business, and it should take into consideration the strengths, weaknesses, opportunities, and threats facing the SME.

One key aspect of a growth strategy is setting measurable goals. These goals should be specific, achievable, and time-bound. For example, an SME might aim to increase revenue by 20% within the next year or expand its customer base by acquiring 100 new clients. By setting clear goals, SMEs can track their progress and make adjustments as needed.

Another important element of a growth strategy is identifying the key drivers of growth. These drivers could be factors such as innovation, operational efficiency, customer satisfaction, or market expansion. By focusing on these drivers, SMEs can prioritize their efforts and allocate resources accordingly. For example, if innovation is a key driver, the SME might invest in research and development, hire creative talent, or collaborate with external innovation hubs.

Furthermore, a growth strategy should include a detailed action plan. This plan outlines the specific steps that need to be taken to achieve the defined goals. It should include timelines, responsibilities, and key performance indicators to track progress. By breaking down the growth journey into actionable steps, SMEs can ensure that they stay on track and make steady progress towards their goals.

Leveraging Digital Marketing for Business Growth

In the digital age, effective marketing is crucial for business growth. SMEs must leverage digital marketing strategies to reach and engage their target audience. Digital marketing encompasses a wide range of tactics, including search engine optimization (SEO), social media marketing, content marketing, email marketing, and paid advertising.

First and foremost, SMEs should focus on optimizing their online presence for search engines. This involves conducting keyword research, optimizing website content, and building high-quality backlinks. By improving their search engine rankings, SMEs can increase their visibility and attract more organic traffic to their website.

Social media marketing is another powerful tool for business growth. SMEs should identify the social media platforms where their target audience spends the most time and create a presence there. By consistently sharing valuable content, engaging with followers, and running targeted ad campaigns, SMEs can build brand awareness, generate leads, and drive conversions.

Content marketing is also essential for SMEs. By creating and sharing valuable, relevant, and informative content, businesses can position themselves as thought leaders and build trust with their audience. Content marketing can take various forms, including blog articles, videos, podcasts, infographics, and ebooks. SMEs should develop a content strategy that aligns with their target audience’s interests and needs.

Email marketing remains one of the most effective channels for customer acquisition and retention. SMEs should build an email list of subscribers who have expressed interest in their products or services. By sending personalized and targeted emails, SMEs can nurture leads, promote new offerings, and drive repeat purchases.

Lastly, paid advertising can provide an immediate boost to business growth. SMEs can run targeted ads on search engines, social media platforms, or other relevant websites. By carefully selecting keywords, demographics, and interests, SMEs can ensure that their ads reach the right audience at the right time. Paid advertising can be a cost-effective way to drive traffic, generate leads, and increase conversions.

Implementing Effective Sales and Marketing Strategies

In addition to digital marketing, SMEs must implement effective sales and marketing strategies to drive business growth. These strategies should be customer-focused, data-driven, and aligned with the overall growth strategy of the business.

One key aspect of successful sales and marketing strategies is understanding the customer journey. SMEs should map out the various touchpoints that a customer goes through when interacting with the business, from initial awareness to final purchase. By understanding these touchpoints, SMEs can identify opportunities for improvement, optimize conversion rates, and deliver exceptional customer experiences.

Moreover, SMEs should invest in data analytics to gain insights into customer behavior and preferences. By analyzing data from various sources, such as website traffic, social media engagement, and sales transactions, SMEs, with the help of a fractional CMO, can make informed decisions and tailor their sales and marketing efforts to meet customer needs. Data analytics can also help identify trends, predict customer behavior, and identify new growth opportunities.

Another important element of effective sales and marketing strategies is building strong relationships with customers. SMEs should prioritize customer retention and loyalty by providing excellent customer service, personalized experiences, and ongoing support. By focusing on customer satisfaction, SMEs can generate positive word-of-mouth, repeat business, and long-term customer loyalty.

Furthermore, SMEs should consider implementing referral programs to incentivize existing customers to refer new customers. Referral programs can be a cost-effective way to acquire new customers and tap into the power of word-of-mouth marketing. By offering incentives, such as discounts, exclusive access, or rewards, SMEs can motivate their loyal customers to become brand ambassadors.

Streamlining Operations for Improved Efficiency

To support business growth, SMEs must streamline their operations and improve efficiency. By eliminating inefficiencies, reducing costs, and optimizing processes, SMEs can free up resources to invest in growth initiatives.

One effective approach to streamlining operations is implementing lean methodologies. Lean principles focus on eliminating waste and maximizing value for the customer. SMEs can apply lean principles to various aspects of their operations, such as inventory management, production processes, and supply chain logistics. By identifying and eliminating non-value-added activities, SMEs can improve productivity and reduce costs.

Moreover, SMEs should invest in technology solutions to automate manual tasks and streamline workflows. This could involve implementing enterprise resource planning (ERP) systems, customer relationship management (CRM) software, or project management tools. By leveraging technology, SMEs can improve accuracy, speed up processes, and enhance collaboration among team members.

Additionally, SMEs should regularly assess and optimize their supply chain management. This involves evaluating suppliers, negotiating contracts, and monitoring performance. By partnering with reliable suppliers and optimizing logistics, SMEs can ensure a smooth flow of materials and reduce lead times. This, in turn, can improve customer satisfaction, minimize stockouts, and increase operational efficiency.

Lastly, SMEs should foster a culture of continuous improvement within their organization. This involves encouraging employees to identify areas for improvement, experiment with new ideas, and learn from failures. By embracing a growth mindset and promoting a culture of innovation, SMEs can stay ahead of the competition and adapt to changing market conditions.

Investing in Talent and Employee Development

To fuel business growth, SMEs must invest in talent acquisition and employee development. Building a high-performing team is crucial for driving innovation, delivering exceptional customer experiences, and executing growth strategies.

When it comes to talent acquisition, SMEs should focus on attracting top talent that aligns with the company’s values and culture. This involves clearly defining job roles and responsibilities, conducting thorough interviews, and assessing candidates based on their skills, experience, and cultural fit. SMEs should also consider offering competitive compensation packages and opportunities for career growth to attract and retain top talent.

Once talent is onboarded, SMEs should provide ongoing training and development opportunities. This could involve organizing internal workshops, enrolling employees in external courses, or providing mentorship programs. By investing in employee development, SMEs can enhance skills, foster creativity, and promote a culture of continuous learning and improvement.

Furthermore, SMEs should create a positive and inclusive work environment. This involves fostering a culture of open communication, collaboration, and mutual respect. SMEs should encourage employees to share their ideas, provide feedback, and contribute to decision-making processes. By fostering a supportive work environment, SMEs can boost employee morale, improve retention rates, and attract top talent.

Lastly, SMEs should consider implementing performance management systems to track employee performance, provide feedback, and set goals. This can help align individual objectives with the overall growth strategy of the business and ensure that employees are accountable for their contributions. Performance management systems can also provide valuable insights into employee strengths, weaknesses, and training needs.

Building Strong Customer Relationships for Sustainable Growth

At the heart of business growth is building strong and lasting customer relationships. SMEs must prioritize customer satisfaction, engagement, and loyalty to drive sustainable growth and differentiate themselves from the competition.

One key aspect of building strong customer relationships is delivering exceptional customer service. SMEs should strive to exceed customer expectations at every touchpoint, from pre-sales inquiries to post-purchase support. This involves providing timely responses, resolving issues promptly, and going the extra mile to delight customers. By delivering outstanding customer service, SMEs can generate positive word-of-mouth, foster customer loyalty, and attract new customers through referrals.

Moreover, SMEs should actively engage with their customers through various channels, such as social media, email marketing, and customer feedback surveys. By listening to customer feedback, SMEs can gain valuable insights into their needs, preferences, and pain points. This feedback can then be used to improve products, services, and overall customer experiences. SMEs should also proactively seek feedback through customer satisfaction surveys, focus groups, or one-on-one interviews to ensure continuous improvement.

Another effective strategy for building strong customer relationships is personalization. SMEs should strive to understand their customers on an individual level and tailor their offerings accordingly. This could involve segmenting customers based on demographics, purchase history, or preferences and delivering personalized recommendations, offers, or experiences. By personalizing interactions with customers, SMEs can create a sense of loyalty and make customers feel valued and appreciated.

Furthermore, SMEs should consider implementing customer loyalty programs to reward and incentivize repeat business. Loyalty programs can take various forms, such as point-based systems, tiered memberships, or exclusive perks. By offering rewards, discounts, or exclusive access to loyal customers, SMEs can encourage repeat purchases, increase customer lifetime value, and foster long-term loyalty.

As SMEs navigate the dynamic business landscape of 2024, mastering the art of business growth is essential for success. By understanding the current business landscape, identifying growth opportunities, and developing a comprehensive growth strategy, SMEs can position themselves for success. Leveraging digital marketing, implementing effective sales and marketing strategies, streamlining operations, investing in talent and employee development, and building strong customer relationships are all key elements in the journey towards business growth.

Read more:
Mastering the Art of Business Growth: Essential Strategies for SMEs in 2024

In the fast-paced world of business, every SME owner dreams of finding a way to clone themselves to handle the ever-mounting workload. Well, thanks to AI, that dream could become a reality.

Imagine being able to click a key and instantly have a whole floor of additional staff at your disposal. AI has the potential to revolutionise the way SMEs operate, granting them the power to scale up operations without the need for extensive recruitment processes and high overhead costs.

Understanding the benefits of AI for SMEs

AI technologies offer SMEs a wide range of benefits that can significantly impact their growth and success. One of the key advantages of AI is its ability to automate repetitive tasks, freeing up valuable time for SME owners and employees to focus on more strategic activities. By automating mundane and time-consuming tasks such as data entry, invoicing, and inventory management, AI allows SMEs to increase productivity and efficiency.

AI can also provide valuable insights through data analysis. SMEs often struggle with analyzing large volumes of data to make informed business decisions. With AI-powered analytics tools, SMEs can quickly process and interpret data, identifying trends, patterns, and opportunities that would otherwise go unnoticed. This enables SMEs to make data-driven decisions, improving their competitiveness and positioning in the market.

The impact of AI on workforce productivity

One of the most significant impacts of AI on SMEs is its ability to enhance workforce productivity. With AI automating repetitive tasks, employees can focus on more complex and creative work that requires human intelligence. This not only improves job satisfaction but also allows SMEs to maximize the potential of their workforce.

AI can also augment human capabilities, acting as a digital assistant to support employees in their day-to-day tasks. For example, AI-powered chatbots can handle customer inquiries, freeing up customer service representatives to address more complex issues. This improves the overall customer experience while reducing the workload on employees.

How AI can automate repetitive tasks

AI has the power to transform mundane and repetitive tasks into automated processes, saving SMEs both time and resources. For instance, AI-powered software can automatically generate invoices, track expenses, and manage inventory, eliminating the need for manual data entry and reducing the risk of errors.

Additionally, AI can automate customer service and support through chatbots. These virtual assistants can handle basic customer inquiries, provide product recommendations, and even process orders. By automating these tasks, SMEs can deliver faster and more efficient customer service, improving customer satisfaction and loyalty.

AI-powered customer service and support

Customer service is a critical aspect of any business, and AI can play a significant role in improving this area for SMEs. AI-powered chatbots and virtual assistants can provide instant support to customers, answering frequently asked questions, resolving common issues, and even assisting with online purchases.

Moreover, AI can analyze customer data and provide personalized recommendations based on individual preferences and behavior. This level of personalization can enhance the customer experience, making customers feel valued and increasing the chances of repeat business.

AI-driven decision making and data analysis

Data analysis is crucial for SMEs to make informed business decisions. However, manually analyzing large volumes of data can be time-consuming and error-prone. AI can streamline this process by automatically processing and analyzing data, providing valuable insights and recommendations.

AI-powered analytics tools can identify patterns, trends, and correlations in data that humans may not be able to detect. This allows SMEs to uncover hidden opportunities, optimize their operations, and make more accurate forecasts. By leveraging AI for data analysis, SMEs can gain a competitive edge in their industry.

Implementing AI in SMEs: Challenges and considerations

While the benefits of AI for SMEs are clear, implementing AI technologies can pose challenges. One of the main challenges is the initial investment required to adopt AI solutions. SMEs may need to allocate resources for infrastructure upgrades, software implementation, and employee training.

Another consideration is the ethical and legal implications of AI. SMEs need to ensure that they comply with data privacy and security regulations when implementing AI technologies. Additionally, SMEs must handle AI-driven decision-making processes responsibly to avoid potential bias or discrimination.

AI tools and technologies for SMEs

There are various AI tools and technologies available that are specifically designed for SMEs. These tools are often user-friendly and cost-effective, making them accessible to smaller businesses. Some popular AI tools for SMEs include chatbot platforms, marketing automation software, and predictive analytics solutions.

Chatbot platforms, such as Chatfuel and ManyChat, allow SMEs to create AI-powered chatbots without any coding knowledge. These chatbots can be integrated into websites and social media platforms, providing automated customer support and lead generation.

Marketing automation software, such as Mailchimp and HubSpot, enable SMEs to automate their marketing campaigns, from email marketing to social media scheduling. This saves SMEs time and resources while ensuring consistent and targeted messaging to their audience.

Predictive analytics solutions, such as IBM Watson Analytics and Google Analytics, empower SMEs to analyze historical data and predict future trends. This helps SMEs make data-driven decisions, optimize their marketing efforts, and identify potential risks and opportunities.

AI implementation success stories in SMEs

Many SMEs have already embraced AI and reaped the benefits. For example, a small e-commerce business used an AI-powered chatbot to handle customer inquiries and saw a significant reduction in response time, resulting in higher customer satisfaction and increased sales.

Another SME implemented AI for inventory management, enabling them to automate stock replenishment based on demand patterns. This not only reduced inventory holding costs but also ensured that popular products were always in stock, improving customer satisfaction and loyalty.

These success stories demonstrate that AI is not just reserved for large corporations. SMEs can leverage AI technologies to streamline their operations, enhance customer experiences, and drive growth.

Conclusion: Embracing AI for SME growth and success

In conclusion, AI has the potential to transform SMEs by providing them with the digital workforce they need to scale up operations and stay competitive. From automating repetitive tasks to analyzing complex data and providing valuable insights, AI technologies offer SMEs the opportunity to streamline their operations, increase efficiency, and deliver better customer experiences.

However, implementing AI in SMEs comes with challenges and considerations. SMEs need to carefully evaluate their needs, allocate resources, and ensure ethical and legal compliance. By leveraging AI tools and technologies designed for SMEs, businesses can overcome these challenges and unlock a whole new world of possibilities.

Embracing AI could be the game-changer that propels your SME to the forefront of your industry, giving you the competitive edge you’ve been craving. So, get ready to click that key and unleash the power of AI as your digital workforce. The future of SMEs is here, and it’s powered by AI.

Read more:
AI could give your SME a whole floor of additional staff at the click of a key

As I watched Chancellor Rishi Sunak unveil the government’s new Net Zero targets, I couldn’t help but feel a pang of disappointment. It’s a day that will go down in history as a black mark against British business, and one we will rue for years to come.

Sunak’s announcement marks a disconcerting shift in priorities that could have catastrophic implications for British businesses. It’s a stark departure from the UK’s previous commitment to sustainability and the long-term benefits it brings, both economically and environmentally.

For many businesses, this new policy feels like a sudden pulling of the rug from under our feet. We’ve been striving hard to align our strategies with the initial Net Zero targets, investing significantly in greener and more sustainable practices. Now, the goalpost has been moved, and the consequences for businesses are grave.

With this change, businesses will face mounting challenges. The financial burden of adopting new practices to meet these new targets, combined with the uncertainty surrounding the specifics of the policy, will place enormous strain on SMEs. This could result in job losses, reduced competitiveness, and potential business closures.

The impact extends beyond the immediate business sphere. Consumers are increasingly demanding sustainable and ethical businesses. A shift away from our previous environmental commitments could potentially damage our reputation in the eyes of consumers, both domestically and internationally.

The Importance of Sustainability

What Sunak’s announcement overlooks is the long-term benefits of sustainability. Prioritising sustainability isn’t just about protecting the environment; it’s also about creating a resilient and future-proof economy.

Green practices stimulate innovation, create jobs, and open up new markets. They make us more competitive on a global scale. By turning our backs on these benefits, we are effectively sabotaging our own future.

A Call to Reconsider

This policy change is more than a mere adjustment of targets. It’s a clear message about where our government’s priorities lie. It’s a decision that underestimates the resilience and adaptability of British businesses, and one that sidelines the importance of sustainability.

As businesses, we must not let this announcement deter us from our commitment to sustainability. We must continue to innovate and find ways to reduce our carbon footprints. We need to keep reminding the government and the public why sustainability should be at the forefront of any economic strategy.

It’s a dark day for British business, but it’s also an opportunity. An opportunity to stand up for what we believe in and to show that we won’t be swayed by short-term political decisions.

Let’s use this as a catalyst to engage in deeper discussions about the kind of future we want for our businesses, our economy, and our planet. Today, more than ever, we must reaffirm our commitment to sustainability and the long-term benefits it brings. Only then can we hope to navigate the challenges that lie ahead and emerge stronger on the other side.

Read more:
A dark day for British business: Unraveling the implications of UK’s new Net Zero Targets

Wilko, the well-known High Street homeware retailer, has recently collapsed into administration, unable to secure a rescue deal.

With 400 shops and 12,500 workers at stake, the future of the company hangs in the balance, I look at the reasons behind its downfall, and the potential implications for its employees and the retail industry as a whole.

The Current Situation

Despite entering administration, the stores will remain open for the time being, ensuring that there are no immediate job losses and employees will continue to be paid. PwC has been appointed as the administrator and will actively seek a potential buyer for the entire business or its parts. The collapse of Wilko, if no resolution is found, could mark one of the biggest casualties on the High Street this year.

The Factors Leading to Collapse

Wilko’s demise was not an overnight event; the company has been grappling with various challenges for some time. The depths of its problems became apparent when it announced its intention to appoint administrators, giving the company a 10-day window to secure a rescue deal. However, despite receiving a significant level of interest, Wilko was unable to strike a deal within the necessary timeframe, leading to its unfortunate collapse.

Missed Opportunities

The collapse of Wilko comes as a blow to many, with the GMB union arguing that it was entirely avoidable. According to the union, warnings were repeatedly given about the retailer’s potential to capitalize on the growing bargain retailer market, but the company failed to seize this opportunity. This missed potential is a clear indication that Wilko failed to adapt to the changing retail landscape and capitalize on emerging trends.

Financial Struggles

Wilko’s financial struggles were a significant contributing factor to its downfall. The company has been burdened with sharp losses and a severe cash shortage. In an attempt to alleviate the financial strain, Wilko borrowed £40 million from Hilco, a restructuring specialist. Despite these efforts, the company’s financial position remained precarious, ultimately leading to its administration.

Fierce Competition

Wilko faced intense competition from rivals such as B&M and The Range, exacerbating its financial woes. As the high cost of living pushed shoppers to seek out bargains, these competitors emerged as popular alternatives. Moreover, Wilko’s traditional town centre locations proved to be an expensive liability as customers increasingly shifted to larger retail parks and out-of-town locations.

Lack of Investment and Adaptation

One of the key factors contributing to Wilko’s downfall was a lack of investment in systems and infrastructure. The company failed to modernize and adapt its operations to meet the demands of a changing retail landscape. With a large estate of over 400 stores, Wilko needed significant investments to remain competitive, but these investments were not made. Consequently, the company found itself unable to keep up with emerging consumer behaviors and mounting challenges.

Economic Challenges

Wilko’s collapse also reflects the broader economic challenges faced by many High Street retailers in recent years. Reduced consumer spending, inflationary pressures, and increasing costs have had a significant impact on the retail sector as a whole. As a result, many retailers, including Wilko, have struggled to survive in this challenging environment.

Impact on Employees and Communities

The collapse of Wilko has significant implications for its employees and the communities it serves. With 12,500 workers at risk of losing their jobs, the immediate concern is the economic and psychological impact on individuals and families. Furthermore, the closure of Wilko’s stores could have a detrimental effect on the local communities, leading to reduced footfall, job losses in associated industries, and a decline in the overall vitality of the affected areas.

Pension Scheme and Deficit

Another concern arising from Wilko’s collapse is the potential impact on its pension scheme. Thousands of Wilko workers are members of the company’s pension scheme, which reportedly has a sizable deficit. The Pensions Regulator is currently in discussions with the employer and scheme to protect the interests of the scheme members during this challenging time.

Future Prospects

While the immediate future of Wilko remains uncertain, there is hope that a buyer may be found to rescue the company, either in its entirety or in parts. PwC, as the appointed administrator, will continue conversations with potential investors to explore all possibilities for the business. However, if no resolution is found, store closures and redundancies may become inevitable.

Wilko’s collapse into administration highlights the challenges faced by High Street retailers in an ever-evolving retail landscape. The company’s failure to adapt, coupled with financial struggles and fierce competition, ultimately led to its unfortunate demise. As Wilko’s future hangs in the balance, the impact on its employees and the retail industry as a whole remains to be seen. The collapse serves as a stark reminder of the need for retailers to stay agile, invest wisely, and anticipate changing consumer behaviors to secure their place in the evolving marketplace.

Read more:
As Wilko falls into administration: We look at the High Street retailer’s struggles

As a business owner, I have come to realise that sustainability is not just a buzzword, but an essential aspect of any successful business plan.

In today’s world, where climate change and environmental degradation are becoming increasingly pressing issues, it is more important than ever for businesses to prioritise sustainability in their operations.

According to a report by the UK government, establishing a pro-innovation approach for UK businesses is essential to reduce their carbon footprint and improve their sustainability practices. Every business must optimise their operations, reduce waste, and improve energy efficiency, all of which can contribute to a more sustainable future.

For me, sustainability is not just about reducing my business’s carbon footprint or minimizing waste. It is about creating a business that is built to last, one that is resilient and adaptable to changing circumstances. By prioritising sustainability, we are not only doing my part to protect the planet, but I am also future-proofing the business.

The Capital Business Media group became a certified Carbon Neutral Company over five years ago, and I have regularly spoken about our companies work-from-anywhere policy, which also adds to not only our staff’s wellbeing, but also the companies overall carbon footprint.

Also as a company we encourage others to follow our lead with our Brands: EV Powered; encouraging others to follow our lead in making the move to electric vehicles, Electric Home; championing sustainable and renewable energy in home and commercial locations and our carbon neutral and fully sustainable business awards The Business Champion Awards, as well as of course being a leading proponent of sustainable SME’s with Business Matters.

One of the key ways in which sustainability has become an integral part of our business plan is through the adoption of sustainable practices in all of our operations. From reducing energy consumption to minimizing waste, we have implemented a range of measures to ensure that our business is as sustainable as possible. For example, all staff who have company cars these are now powered by electric, and our print business has implemented a programme throughout out supply chain to source ethically and sustainable and also a detailed recycling programme to minimise waste.

But sustainability is not just about reducing our environmental impact. It is also about creating a business that is socially responsible and ethical. This means treating our employees fairly, supporting local communities, and sourcing materials and products from ethical and sustainable sources. By doing so, we are not only doing the right thing, but we are also building a strong reputation and brand that customers can trust.

Another key aspect of sustainability in our business plan is innovation. By embracing new technologies and ideas, we are able to create products and services that are not only sustainable but also innovative and cutting-edge. For example, we were one of the first media companies to sent out subscription magazines in paper wrappers not plastic – even the biodegrade and compostable variants. By doing so, we are not only reducing waste but also creating products that are more sustainable and environmentally friendly.

But perhaps the most important reason why sustainability is essential in our business plan is that it is simply good business sense. By prioritising sustainability, we are able to reduce costs, increase efficiency, and improve our bottom line. For example, by introducing our work-from-anywhere policy which enabled us to reduce energy consumption and waste, we are able to save money on utility bills and office costs. By sourcing materials and products from ethical and sustainable sources, we are able to reduce the risk of supply chain disruptions and improve the quality of our products.

Moreover, by prioritising sustainability, we are able to attract and retain customers, like our anchor automotive division client Aston Martin who are increasingly concerned about the environment and social responsibility. In today’s world, consumers are more conscious than ever about the impact of their purchasing decisions on the planet and society. By demonstrating our commitment to sustainability, we are able to build a loyal customer base that values our products and services.

Read more:
Why sustainability should be the cornerstone of any business plan