Had I not entered journalism in the before the Internet took off, the snide and toothless sarcasm of my weekly columns would ultimately descend into a mediocre Medium blog by an aristocrat, but here we are.

Who am I?

I look like Peter Kay with a hangover, grovel for online attention and fantasise about Tony Blair being Nick Fury from the Avengers, I also get mad at being called a Tory, despite being in a Tory think-tank.

Who am I?

I augur intricacies of politics from fatuous details of aristocratic fashion and posh consumer goods. I hate trans people and make japes about donating money to women of colour.

Who am I?

I look like a haunted mirror and I believe anyone not supporting illegal wars to be worse than a literal fascist.

Who am I?

I am nose-diving into a senility steeped in blatant racism as a shining beacon of nominative determinism.

Who am I?

Don't let my exotic continental name fool you, cher lecteur, because no matter the question, centrism is always the answer.

Who am I?