I am happy to report, dear reader, that after putting last week’s magazine to bed, I made a successful dash to France to recover my battered (but not beloved) old C-Max, with my brother in tow for support. The car had been stuck in the little Breton town of Lannion since it broke down during our family holiday over the summer.
It was a delight to be back in France. Everything was just so, well, French. The roads were quiet, the scenery rolling and lovely, the pastries absurdly delicious (a Paris-Brest, my choice this time). Before starting the long journey home, I headed to the beach where I’d spent time splashing with the kids in the summer sun. As I travelled there, I even contemplated a quick dip in the sea.
In October, however, the place was chilly and largely deserted – apart from two women sheltering from the wind beneath some rocks. As I looked out at this scene from La Belle France, I suddenly noticed that the two women had stripped off and were running naked into the sea. Blushing and unsure where to look – now painfully British – I decided the only course of action was to about-turn and make for the safety of my car. En marche à Calais!
An hour outside our destination, my brother and I finally stopped for the night. A nice hotel with an even nicer restaurant was my treat for getting up at 4am to collect the family wagon. Romantic visions of France began once again to burn brightly as a dignified old waiter handed us the wine list and began to explain the two varieties of butter we had for our bread that evening.
The meal finished not just with some gloriously improbable dessert, but with what I can only describe as a posh Magnum, followed by a Willy Wonka-style sweet tray filled with lollies and chocolates. There’s something very odd – though rather liberating – about being served posh Haribos by a man in a dinner jacket.
At moments like this, it’s hard to believe that France really is in crisis. For much of my life, it has felt like this: one moment I read that France is far too bureaucratic and sclerotic to avoid calamity; the next, I visit and find it glorious. And yet perhaps this time it’s real: as I write, its former president has been jailed, its current president is loathed and its fiscal crisis appears to be deepening by the minute. Like its restaurants (and beaches), France’s crisis can appear oh-so-French. And yet it is also oh-so-familiar. Indeed, in the hotel bar after our meal, a group of Belgian businessmen were desperate to talk about Britain’s crisis rather than the one in Paris. Had our economy collapsed, they asked? Would Nigel Farage become prime minister? And why, exactly, wouldn’t Keir Starmer let people fly their flags? I made a quick exit. How is it that stories spread in this way?
Our Cover Story by Andrew Marr this week tackles some of the spiralling despair in British politics. It is Andrew’s last as political editor – but don’t worry, he’s not going anywhere. From next month, he’ll take on a new role as editor-at-large, focusing on the broader trends shaping British politics and current affairs. Andrew’s weekly column will be taken over by our incoming political editor, the fearless Ailbhe Rea, who returns to the New Statesman after a distinguished sojourn away.
A quick word about Andrew. When I first thought about becoming a journalist, my dad bought me Andrew’s book My Trade. Twenty years later, Andrew remains the journalist’s journalist: full of gossip and intrigue, stories and excitement about the latest events in Westminster. Every Saturday, when my phone buzzes, I know I’m about to learn something about the inner workings of the cabinet – who’s happy and who isn’t; what the Prime Minister said to so-and-so; and, crucially, why it all matters. And then we’ll talk about Tolstoy. And then about the latest book he’s writing. Or the new technique he’s using in his paintings. The man is a force of nature, and I’m thrilled he’ll be sticking around – continuing to make sense of the world on these pages.
Back in England, I ventured to the Lake District to see some friends and clamber up the Old Man of Coniston. If Brittany was very French, this was very English: windswept and misty on the fells, warm and alive in the pubs. Home. In the Black Bull, we sampled the local nectar – Bluebird Bitter, Old Man Ale, and, the best of all, the Premium XB. Perhaps it is my own nostalgia, or prejudice, but pints are better up north; the beer somehow feels alive. I also took the opportunity to order chips, peas and gravy. For a brief moment, I felt like Andy Burnham.
[Further reading: I thought Labour would fix everything. I was wrong]
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This article appears in the 23 Oct 2025 issue of the New Statesman, Doom Loop