It is a testament to the absolute, howling moral vacuum of the Western political establishment that Peter Mandelson is not currently managing a Cinnabon in a strip mall under an assumed name, but is instead being feted on the BBC as a sage of the modern age. If you needed proof that the British elite functions less like a meritocracy and more like a sealed septic tank where the same waste merely circulates endlessly, look no further than the recent resurrection of the Prince of Darkness. We are told, with a straight face, that he has a "formidable political brain" and the "drive to go again." Of course he does. Parasites always have the drive to find a fresh vein; it is the host body of the electorate that is currently suffering from anemia.

The news that Mandelson is being rehabilitated—yet again—is not surprising, but it is nauseating. According to the BBC’s recent coverage, we are supposed to overlook the fact that this man is "bruised and tainted" by his relationship with Jeffrey Epstein. Note the passive voice employed by the chattering classes. He wasn’t an active participant in a social circle that preyed on the vulnerable; he was simply "bruised" by it, as if he accidentally walked into a door frame made of international sex trafficking. Louis Mosley, the UK head of Palantir Technologies, appeared on the BBC to tell us that while an "indefensible error of judgment" had been made, Mandelson is nonetheless essential.

Let us pause to appreciate the synergy here. Palantir, a company named after a fictional all-seeing stone used by an evil wizard to corrupt the minds of kings, is lecturing the public on the necessity of Peter Mandelson. Mosley argues that we need Mandelson because he is a "masterful interpreter of Trump." This is the sort of corporate hallucinations that passes for insight in the decomposing skull of the United Kingdom. We are living in a reality where a data-mining surveillance firm defends a politician associated with the world's most notorious pedophile because, apparently, we need someone to translate the erratic barking of an American reality TV star turned President.

What exactly is this "translation function" Mosley speaks of? It is a euphemism for the role of the court eunuch. The British establishment, terrified of a second Trump term, believes that if they just find the right spin doctor—the right slick operator from the Tony Blair era—they can massage the ego of the American Caesar. It is a delusion of grandeur. Trump does not need "interpreting"; he needs to be managed by psychiatrists, not courted by disgraced Labour peers. But the British political class, devoid of ideas and stripped of dignity, clings to the belief that "spin" is a superpower. They think they can charm the magma flow of populism with a witty aside and a well-tailored suit.

The sheer audacity of Mandelson’s return highlights the central rot of modern governance: the complete lack of accountability. In a functioning society, hanging out with Jeffrey Epstein is a career-ending event. It is the period at the end of the sentence. In the UK, it is merely a comma, followed by a brief hiatus, and then a return to the Sunday morning talk shows. The phrase "indefensible error of judgment" is doing heavy lifting here; it is the polite, aristocratic way of saying "moral bankruptcy." Yet, because the Labour Party under Keir Starmer is essentially a hollow shell painted beige, they feel the gravitational pull of their old masters. They look at Mandelson and see experience, rather than a radioactive isotope of sleaze.

Mosley claims Mandelson has the "drive to go again." This is framed as a virtue, a testament to his resilience. It is nothing of the sort. It is the pathological narcissism of a man who cannot conceive of a world that does not require his input. These people do not retire. They do not reflect. They do not feel shame. They simply wait for the news cycle to vomit up enough fresh horrors that their own transgressions seem quaint by comparison. Mandelson is banking on the public's exhaustion. He knows that in a world on fire, the electorate is too tired to maintain its rage against every single grifter clawing their way back up the ladder.

So, we are left with the spectacle of the data-surveillance complex (Palantir) high-fiving the ghost of New Labour (Mandelson) over the corpse of political decency. They tell us he is a genius, a translator, a necessary evil. He is none of these things. He is simply a man who knows where the bodies are buried because he helped dig the holes. And as long as the media continues to offer him a microphone instead of a mirror, he will never, ever disappear.