One morning in April 2026 a US fighter pilot was supposedly pulled out from behind enemy lines in Iran. At night. That is the story we were told. We do not really know what happened. The likelier reading is that the United States military made an astonishingly unsuccessful attempt to steal nuclear material from Iran, then concocted a story about a fallen aircraft, the loss of many jets, and a heroic escape for an pilot nobody has yet seen. Some of us remember the cacophony of that week, which was then succeeded by all sorts of other stuff. On that very day Donald was circling the ceremonial axis of the Republic outside Arlington National Cemetery. He had his motorcade drive slowly round a traffic circle. He was focusing on a patch of grass in the middle of a roundabout, while the supposed airman, who may or may never have existed, struggled under unspecified injuries, rescued, it was reported, by hundreds of other heroic US military. He wants to put an arch on that grass. A triumphal arch, like the one in Paris, 250 feet high, concrete wrapped in granite, with a 60-foot gold Liberty on top, wings on her back and golden eagles either side. Six months before, in the Oval Office, a reporter had pointed at the model and asked him who it was for. The Russian mafia Don answered: me. This week’s podcast is about an arch act of trolling: installing the monarch archetype at the ceremonial axis of the Republic, perhaps the greatest republic humanity has ever experienced, and probably now in its closing stages. A duty to retain the Republic All of us have a duty, and especially the Americans amongst us, to fight to retain the Republic in the jurisdiction of the United States. France has had five or six republics. There is no reason why there cannot be a second American republic, one that takes account of all the errors the Don and his enablers, the eparchy, have brought to the fore of so many minds. It must be said what it is like, at this point, to read the august commentators upon whom I and many others used to rely, in the Washington Post, the New York Times and the other great institutions of the Republic. They take the ballroom at face value. They write serious pieces about the arch. They write sniffy, snobby pieces about gold in the White House. They share the memes the White House releases, to express their disapproval, and in sharing them they keep them alive. That is one of the sadder aspects of all this. Last week a senior US Army officer in Canada pooh-poohed a very competent Canadian journalist who asked him the straight question. What would you do if the commander-in-chief ordered you to invade Canada? I do not impugn the integrity of ordinary soldiers. I do impugn the integrity of commanders who would rather keep their jobs than state clearly to Canada, a NATO ally and one of the United States’ strongest supporters, that under no circumstances would they obey an unlawful order to invade it. That lack of integrity, that lack of professionalism, is exactly what has led to the catastrophic war in Iran, in which America has expended most of its available munitions and all of its political capital in the Middle East, and has made a superpower of the mullah-led, undemocratic regime in Tehran. The US Army is engaged in the most heinous war crimes in an unlawful war. The Navy feeds its sailors starvation rations on ships without proper sanitation. Meanwhile the bombing goes on. Full kudos to the brave officers who resigned, or were fired by the Russian mafia-led administration, rather than follow unlawful orders. We can say that this is just Don and his Russian mafia enablers. It is on all of us that it is happening. My speciality is to look for the folkloric archetypes in the everyday stories that some people call news and I call Disinfolklore, or Infolklore. So while all that was going on in Iran, or not going on, and we may never know, Donald, the Don, the Russian mafia Don, was looking at a patch of grass. The straight line The spot where he stopped his motorcade is the western end of a straight line. Pierre L’Enfant, the French engineer George Washington hired to lay out the capital, drew it across a marsh in 1791. The McMillan Commission carried it west over reclaimed river flats in 1902. It runs from the Capitol down the Mall, past the Washington Monument, along the Reflecting Pool to the Lincoln Memorial, over Memorial Bridge, which I crossed many times as a postgrad at Georgetown, and up the hill to the old house at Arlington. Americans call it the ceremonial axis. It is the straightest line the Republic draws. Focus on that word. Straight. And everything the Republic does on that line is a turning. A power is handed on at one end of it. A parade wheels at the Capitol and comes back. A cortege turns off the bridge into the cemetery. We have written evidence of this institution from India and from Ireland, the two ends of the Indo-European world, going back thousands of years. When the same institution turns up at the extreme ends of a language family, scholars like me take it to come from a common source. The institution is the inauguration of the king. The monarch rides along a straight line, on a horse that is later sacrificed, or in a chariot driven by a charioteer who represents the military function. The straight line wheels around what would become, in Buddhism, the stupa. So back to Washington, DC, an Indo-European community. The arch is to stand in a turn at the end of a straight line. The whole of what follows is in those two shapes. Turning, T-R-. Straight, R-T-. The R-T- of right, writ and truth is in straight. In the Indo-European languages, the family English belongs to, the human who draws the straight line is the monarch. The one who turns you is the troll. Hitchens’s evidence Antonia Hitchens in The New Yorker has written the fullest account anyone has of what has been done to that line, and to the house at the other end of it. Her piece, “Donald Trump’s Capital Makeover” (4 September 2026), is excellent. It is patient. It is fair to everyone in it. It is just. It assembles more of the facts than anything else in print. The ballroom. The arch. The paved-over Rose Garden. Has anyone here read Oscar Wilde’s tales about what happens when you cut the rose? The gold. The East Wing, knocked down in three days, for anyone looking for a symbol of what has happened to the First Republic. The drained pool, the donors, the money, the fired commissioners. Everything I read here as evidence is in it. If you have not read it, perhaps this piece will send you to it. What follows is my reading of that evidence. From 2015 to 2018, just as MAGA was unfurling its war magic on the American people, I was in the tiger’s den, in Russia-occupied Luhansk, as a diplomat. I read Russian Combat Propaganda every day. I watched what it did to the minds around me. And I was, unwillingly but unavoidably, a participant in the stories I would learn to call Disinfolklore, archetypal stories that infect our minds with a meanness we could not have imagined a few moments earlier. Washington in 2026, I am afraid, reads the same way. It is ten years on, and the lessons of Russia-occupied Ukraine, even before the full-scale invasion, were learned by only a handful of Westerners who lived there and lived to tell the tale. I was one of them. Had we been more vocal at the time, we might have persuaded people that this was coming for us all. The AfD. Brexit. Donald. The National Rally. What almost happened in Romania. Every one of our countries is being subjected to what I called, in my Munich speech of February 2025, the Disinfolklore galaxies being impressed upon our minds. What Hitchens’s piece does not have is a name for what all those facts are evidence of. Nor, frankly, does anyone else. America’s political culture has been talking about the gold trimmings, the ballroom and the arch for a year, sniffily, appalled, entertained, memeing it into existence while criticising its gaucheness, as it has always done with Donald. If you are a Russian mafia Don, part of you wants to be in the in-group. You can go to an Ivy League school, the same one my grandfather went to. You can send your daughter there. You can try to make it with the old money in Manhattan. Or you can build a movement that attracts some of them. But ultimately you do not care, because you are adjacent to the Russian mafia and you look down on all those other people. So while a war goes badly in Iran, nobody in the conversation has named what the gold is doing. They think it is taste. They think Donald cares that they are sniffing at his taste. While we critique it from the perspective of aesthetics and interior design, we miss what it actually is. It is an installation of archetypal Disinfolklore in our minds. Not in any part of our mind. In our inner minds. Don, to give him the name I use, because I refuse to use the second one, is installing a Monarch archetype in architectural form on the ceremonial axis of the Republic, the wheel around which the whole Republic spins. Note the arch in archetype, the arch in monarch, the arch in architectural. And it is worse than that. Donald is only acting the part of the monarch. He is taking the accoutrements of Louis XIV and adding them wherever he can, because that is the stage set. It is not who he is or what he cares about. He is the front. The front man. The front of house. The shop window. Behind the actor is an eparchy, a board that rules from behind the man who appears to rule. Eparchy carries the same R-C-H sound, and it is a very old institution in Indo-European society. We have written evidence of it, dealt with brilliantly by Harold Bailey in his work on the second stratum of the Indo-Iranian gods. And that eparchy, in case any of us have not noticed, is rinsing the Republic dry. Of its weapons. Of its soldiers. Of its Mana. Of its fiscal rectitude, its reputation, its beauty, its truth, it