An editor in Holloway tries to explain diesel diplomacy, drone speed limits and a war with terms and conditions to the man at the corner shop
Saturday, 17 October 2026. Holloway, North London. Desk by the window, a mug of coffee strong enough to testify, 6.15am.
An Old Professor Wakes Up To A War With A Customer Service Line
I have been teaching young people for thirty-seven years, and in that time I have learned one thing for certain about politics. Whenever a powerful man says a problem is simple, he means he has found someone smaller to make it their problem. I was reminded of this before my first coffee had cooled, while editing the piece on how Trump tried to stop Ukraine bombing Russian oil refineries by restricting its drones.
The facts, as reported, are bleak enough. Ukraine found limits on its military satellite links for drones above a hundred miles an hour. Russia went on striking Ukrainian power stations, leaving around six hundred thousand people without electricity on a single October day. Ukraine announced it would resume hitting refineries. And somewhere in Washington the priority appeared to be the price of diesel. The jokes write themselves, which is unfortunate, because I am paid to write them.
Reciprocity, Revised
The line I am proudest of in the edit is the observation that reciprocity has quietly been redefined. It used to mean two countries exchanging equivalent concessions. Now it means one country stops damaging the other’s infrastructure, and the other promises to keep explaining why its own damage was necessary. I grew up on a dairy farm in north Texas, and this is precisely how my uncle negotiated with the neighbour over a fence. My uncle’s cows went through the fence. The neighbour’s cows were asked to respect it.
The second line I like is the burglar who asks the homeowner to stop calling the police because the sirens are bothering his getaway driver. I tested it on Mr Demir at the corner shop on Hornsey Road at seven, buying milk. He laughed, then stopped laughing, then said that is not a joke, that is a description, and charged me for two pints when I had only taken one. I paid it. He had earned it.
The Battlefield Now Has Terms And Conditions
My students used to ask me what the future of war would look like. I would tell them about drones, satellites and cyber attacks. I never once said it would look like a broadband contract. But here we are. A country can spend billions on technology to defend itself, and discover that the most consequential weapon on the battlefield is an administrator’s ability to adjust the internet speed. Peace in our time, subject to network availability.
When I was a graduate student in Dublin in the late eighties, we used to argue about sovereignty late into the night in a pub on Baggot Street. Sovereignty meant borders, armies, a currency, perhaps a seat at the United Nations. Nobody ever mentioned a password. If you had told us that one day a nation’s independence might turn on whether somebody in another country had renewed its satellite package, the barman would have cut us off, and rightly.
A Note On Britain
The report mentions the British pledge of more air defence for Ukraine. I added a sentence I think is true: a missile does not usually check whether the government has paid the broadband bill before intercepting something. Britain has spent decades arguing about whether it has enough ships, soldiers and ammunition. It now has a fresh question to add to the list, which is whether its allies’ systems can be switched off by a political mood swing across the Atlantic. That is not a satirist’s question. That is a defence committee’s question. It just sounds funnier when a satirist asks it.
Why I Run A Site Called Govna
Readers occasionally write to ask what the name means. There is a page on the meaning of govna in British slang for anyone who missed the lesson. The short version: it is what a London cabbie calls you when he wants a tip and is not sure of your name. It is respect and suspicion in two syllables. That seemed the right tone for writing about people who govern.
The governors of 2026 have given me more material in a week than the whole of the 1990s gave me in a decade. In 1995 the worst thing a leader did was tell a dull lie about a budget. Now they announce ceasefires that only one side has heard of. It is a surprise party where the guest of honour was never invited and the cake is on fire.
The Rule I Try To Keep
I have one editorial rule on a story like this. Laugh at the powerful, never at the people in the dark. The joke is never the family without heating. The joke is the man who thinks a cheaper tank of fuel counts as a peace treaty. My late father, who was born to Swiss parents and milked cows twice a day for fifty years, had a phrase for men like that. He said they could not find the barn with a lantern and a map. He would have enjoyed this week enormously and voted against all of it.
Saturday Plans
Lunch at the cafe on Seven Sisters Road where they still call me Professor even though I asked them to stop in 2023. Then an afternoon editing three more pieces for the network, a nap that I will describe to my wife as research, and an evening reading Burke, who had views on revolutions and would have had very firm views on satellite subscriptions. Mr Demir has promised to tell me if the corner shop Wi-Fi ever gets a speed limit. I suspect it already has one, and it is called Tuesday.