Paul Kirkley: Goodbye to all that… his final regular dispatch for this newspaper

I’m not normally one for New Year’s resolutions. But, for the sake of my sanity, I’ve decided that 2025 is the year in which I’m going to take a lot less notice of… stuff.

And by stuff, I mean all the sound and fury of a world that is growing increasingly noisy, chaotic and, not to put too fine a point on it, dumb. We are living through the Age of Stupid, and I’m not sure how much more of it I can take. Which is a bit of a problem, when you’re a topical news columnist. So, for that reason, this will be my final regular dispatch for this newspaper.

My first column was published in the launch issue of the Cambridge Independent in the late summer of 2016, in the immediate aftermath of Brexit, and shortly before the first coming of Donald Trump. And in the eight-and-a-half years since, things have only got progressively madder.

For evidence, consider that, in 2025, we’ve already heard the new president of the United States talk of invading Greenland, Panama and possibly Canada, Elon Musk threatening to “liberate” Britain from the tyrannical yoke of our democratically-elected government, and Mark Zuckerberg declaring that facts are now woke. The new US administration has also declared a bonfire of climate initiatives, even as LA is literally on fire. And speaking of La-La Land, Mel Gibson and Sylvester Stallone have now been tasked with rooting out all the left liberal bedwetters from Hollywood – so presumably we can look forward to a Star Wars remake in which the Empire defeats those pesky Antifa rebels. All this, and it’s still only the start of February. Is it any wonder us satirists are throwing in the towel?

In the lifetime of this column, we’ve effectively seen the death of the postwar consensus. In its place has emerged a new global disorder, fueled by a terrifying, uncontrollable rise of disinformation and lies. Fake news is spreading through the world like a California wildfire, and it’s only going to get worse under America’s new oligarchy: having taken the knee and kissed the ring, the Silicon Valley tech bros can now look forward to a golden age of deregulation (strictly in the name of ‘free speech’, you understand).

Because nothing, it seems, has shown the human race its own face quite as forcefully as the internet. I’m reminded of a quote by the writer Robert Harris, who said: “Things that should have been liberating about the internet and social media – interconnectedness and bringing us all together – are in fact driving us apart. We should have reached the epitome of the age of reason, of us being able to sit anywhere with our phones and have access to the world’s knowledge. We should be moving into a new era of enlightenment, and what do we find? Conspiracy theories and cranks. We’ve moved into a new age of irrationality. We are punch-drunk with it.”

And then some. Only last week, a Channel 4 News poll has found that a majority of British Gen Zedders, high on the fumes of social media algorithms that constantly drip the poison of Elon Musk, Andrew Tate et al into their ears, believe Britain would be better off as a dictatorship that “doesn’t have to bother with elections”. Aw. They’re lovely at that age, aren’t they?

‘Move fast and break things’ went the famous Silicon Valley mantra. Turns out the thing they broke was the human race.

But maybe we shouldn’t be surprised by any of this. Maybe, in the war between easy lies and difficult truths, there was only ever going to be one winner.

Barack Obama said a few years ago that this is the greatest time in human history to be alive. And he was probably right at the time, all things considered. But Barack Obama already feels like a relic of a distant, more hopeful age. “The arc of the moral universe is long, but it bends towards justice,” said Martin Luther King. For the sake of my children, and yours, I hope so.

Still, we’ve had some times together, eh readers? Over the years, we’ve weathered everything from a global pandemic to that time Liz Truss was beaten by a lettuce. We’ve outlived four Prime Ministers, six Chancellors, four Doctor Whos and three Death in Paradise detectives. Oh, and Ladbaby have had five Christmas number ones, which probably tells you more about the decline of civilisation than anything else I’ve mentioned so far.

While this column didn’t quite make the decade, this year does mark a significant anniversary for me: in April, it will be 20 years since I moved to Cambridge. And I can tell you I have never felt more grateful to live in a city built on such unfashionable concepts as facts, and data, and rational inquiry. We are a thoughtful, moderate, progressive city, privileged to live in peace and relative prosperity. While the world burns, we have spent literally years arguing over whether cars should be allowed to drive over a bridge. And I love us for that. (We’ve also been finding ways to stop the world burning, of course. Or at least our climate scientists have. I’ve mainly just been typing unhelpful jokes.)

I would also like to salute this newspaper, and its indefatigable editor’s efforts to hold back the tide of clickbait churnalism that has decimated Britain’s local news ecosystem. There really aren’t a lot of newspapers like the Cambridge Independent left in this country. So please keep doing your bit to look after it.

Cambridge isn’t perfect, of course. It never snows, for one thing. And the wider county of Cambridgeshire is as flat as a five-bob note and as dull as ditchwater – of which there is an annoying amount. (Sorry, but it’s true, so don’t bother writing in – I haven’t left a forwarding address.) But it is a magnificent city: a market town with a brain the size of a planet, and a place that’s arguably done as much to further the sum of human understanding as anywhere on Earth.

It’s got looks as well as brains, of course, our beautiful medieval city. Movie star looks, you might say – I’ve lost count of the number of films and TV shows that have been made here since I arrived, and the old girl always looks ravishing.

In my very first column, I also expressed my fondness for Cambridge’s ancient, stubbornly immovable institutions. The fact that students come up on the down train and get sent down on the up. The fact that May Week is in June. (Because why wouldn’t it be? Having it in May would be so predictable.) I love the fact the degree ceremonies are still in Latin, that you get a master’s degree just for managing not to die within two years of graduating, and that walking on the grass is still punishable by death. (Note to subs: please check this last one.)

So thank you, Cambridge, for welcoming me into your arms. And thank you to anyone who’s ever read or raised a smile at anything I’ve written in these missives. Or indeed, anyone who’s ever thrown the newspaper across the room in disgust. I’m just grateful for the attention, frankly.

I’ve told the editor I am still available for special assignments – especially if it involves free stuff – so hopefully I won’t be disappearing entirely from these pages. Until then, let me wish you good night and good luck. Something tells me you’re going to need it.

See Paul’s local review and his take on the wider world in 2024.