There is a specific, pungent scent that permeates the corridors of power these days. It isn’t the smell of sulphur, nor the crisp scent of burning currency, though both are certainly present in the global economy. No, it is the unmistakable musk of desperation. And nobody—absolutely nobody—wears that cologne quite like the Prime Minister of the United Kingdom, Sir Keir Starmer.

I have spent the last few days watching the reports trickle in regarding Starmer’s frantic, sweaty attempts to keep Donald Trump “on side.” We are told by the breathless, sycophantic press that this was one of the Prime Minister's few “sweet spots.” Let us pause and appreciate the grotesque absurdity of that phrase. To suggest that there is anything “sweet” about the diplomatic friction between a man who resembles a bewigged technocrat and a man who resembles a tangerine coated in hairspray is to assault the very concept of language.

But here we are. The premise of the news is simple: Starmer, in a display of realpolitik that would make Machiavelli vomit, has been working overtime to ensure that the inevitable return or lingering presence of the MAGA King doesn't flatten the British economy like a bug on a windshield. And now, predictably, this strategy is coming back to bite him. The sharks—his opponents, both the screeching harpies on his Left and the opportunistic vultures on his Right—are circling, sensing that the Prime Minister’s knee-pads are wearing thin.

Let’s dissect this farce, shall we? On one side, we have Starmer. A man whose political identity is so fluid it could be sold as a bottled beverage. He rose to power on a platform of “I am not the other guy,” which, to be fair, is the only platform that works in Western democracy anymore. He presents himself as the adult in the room, the steady hand, the prosecutor. And yet, look at him now. The Prosecutor is essentially acting as a defense attorney for a chaotic relationship with a convicted felon across the Atlantic. The irony is so thick you could choke on it, provided you hadn't already choked on the hypocrisy.

The narrative that Starmer has “kept Trump on side” is a delusion of grandeur common among the British political class. They still believe in the “Special Relationship,” a term the Americans use solely to keep the British quiet while they pillage the rest of the world. To Trump, Keir Starmer is likely nothing more than “Generic European Guy #4,” a blurred figure in a grey suit who probably wants money or a trade deal that involves selling substandard cheese. The idea that Starmer has charmed the beast is laughable. You do not charm a hurricane; you just hope your house isn't the first one it destroys. Starmer isn't a lion tamer; he's just the guy holding the raw meat, hoping he doesn't get his arm bitten off.

And now, the backlash. The article notes that his “increasingly assertive opponents” are turning this diplomatic tightrope walk sour. Of course they are. This is the only thing politicians are actually good at: identifying a moment of necessary evil and pretending it is a moral failing. The British Right, currently a dumpster fire of infighting and irrelevance, is attacking Starmer not because they dislike Trump—good lord, no, they worship the ground his golf cart rolls on—but because they want to paint Starmer as weak. They want to see him grovel, and then mock him for the dust on his trousers.

Meanwhile, the Left—Starmer’s own supposed tribe—is having a collective aneurysm. They want ideological purity. They want a Prime Minister who will stand atop the White Cliffs of Dover and shout insults at Mar-a-Lago, consequences be damned. They fail to understand that the United Kingdom is no longer an empire; it is a mid-sized island nation with a GDP propped up by money laundering and nostalgia. Starmer knows this. He knows he has to kiss the ring. But watching him do it, with that pained, constipated expression of “pragmatism,” is a spectacle of pure humiliation.

So, is it coming back to bite him? Inevitably. Everything bites everyone eventually in this stupidity-saturated timeline. Starmer is trapped in the classic liberal bind: to govern effectively in a world dominated by right-wing populism, he must debase himself before the populists. But by debasing himself, he erodes the moral superiority that was his only selling point. He becomes just another suit making deals with the devil, except he’s not even getting a good price for his soul.

The tragedy isn't that Starmer is failing to manage the Trump relationship. The tragedy is that we are forced to care. We are forced to watch these two diametrically opposed archetypes of mediocrity—the boring bureaucrat and the narcissist showman—dance a tango of mutual distrust while the world burns around them. Starmer’s opponents will tear him apart for being too close to Trump, or not close enough, depending on which way the wind blows on Tuesday. And Trump? He won't even notice. He’ll just keep playing golf, oblivious to the little grey man across the ocean who thought he had a “sweet spot.”

There are no sweet spots in hell, Sir Keir. Only varying degrees of heat.