Today's Evening Standard is plastered with close-up pictures of the "bat-eared, chinless, slobbering Dauphin", as the late Christopher Hitchens dubbed him. Prince Charles. In its ultimate act of sycophancy, Lebvedev's newspaper has fabricated a meaningless award, the "Londoner of the Decade", and simultaneously drained it of any possible meaning by dedicating it to the most overprivileged, pointless man in London. An emblem, if ever we needed one, of the sheer gall of a German dynasty still enjoying its privilege over Britain while refusing to shut up about politics. Dauphin Charles' many escapades and embarrassing campaigns better left to us commoners who enjoy a wider gene pool and, you know, qualifications other than a fortunate birth.
In the Standard's vapid centrefold speech dedicated to his own grandeur, Charles congratulates himself among other achievements for deigning to share his riches with the commoners via the Prince's Trust. How impressive. All that exhausting sitting in a taxpayer-funded palace to do, and Charles even raises a few bob to send the peasant children on occasional daytrips.
Forgive my underwhelmed sigh.
Duchy Foods is another paragon of mind-bending self-congratulation the Prince treats us to. Incredibly, while many of us were eating ordinary, affordable crackers, the Dauphin was busily arranging the sale of more organic and pricey ones we now know to be quasi-identical. Hip hip hoorah, and a pip-pip for the Prince.
Lebvedev could have thrown a copy of their newspaper off the escalators of Victoria Station and hit a more worthwhile candidate for such an award. But instead they elect an erstwhile supporter of Wahabi Islam, who actively campaigned for the poor, downtrodden Muslims to be allowed this ideology in prisons and mosques across London. And look how well that turned out.
A lifelong campaigner for radical Islamist breeding-grounds, the odd school trip, and crackers. This is what it takes to be top dog in London.
Mr Lebvedev's award is about as useful as it sounds. A wet, in-bred, blabbering, German herring when picking the lock of London's post-Brexit problems.
I'll keep my nominees for next decade's winner under wraps, but if this is the Standard (pun intended), perhaps Homer Simpson would be my 2026 nomination. Or my neighbour's cat Archie. At least he keeps tabs on the local rats.