Investors, blinded by the glitter of quantum promises, are throwing cash like it’s a tech-themed Mardi Gras, hoping to catch the next trillion-dollar unicorn, never mind that the unicorn might be a little, well, imaginary!

Take Rigetti Computing, which went public claiming breakthroughs around the corner. Analysts scratching their heads wonder if the corner is in another dimension altogether! Meanwhile, IonQ dances on the Nasdaq, showing off its quantum prowess while investors debate if it’s all just a glorified Schrödinger’s experiment — are they winning or losing? Both? Neither?

Yet their stock price isn’t... Winning, that is.

As these startups promise to revolutionise everything from AI to your morning toast, the stock market is desperately trying to play along in a slightly dodgy game of quantum leapfrog. Who needs profits when you have a trillion page Powerpoint?

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The new norm could be a boardroom-sized number of CEOs in lab coats and AI spectacles, launching paper rockets labelled ‘Quantum IPO 2026’ while investors chime, ‘To the moon!’ at the opening bell. Yet, amidst this cosmic carnival, one can’t help but ask: are we witnessing a new Big Bang or a slow, gradual implosion, slightly reminiscent of current real world battlefields?

Meanwhile, our mothership’s latest AI VentureFactory release promises the new generation of tech startups will have less Powerpoint, more cool tech and some IRL customers. It’s a lean, mean, next-generation venture propelling machine, spitting out startups like low cost drones from Ukraine. A tad smaller, yet highly effective.

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Adding to the chaos, British naval ships found themselves stranded at port, as if waiting for a GPS update that never arrived. The Royal Navy’s struggle to get off land was less about strategic military manoeuvres and more about untangling the metaphorical anchor of snooze. Proving we all need a winter break. It seems someone forgot to say, ‘anchors aweigh,’ resulting in a nautical version of musical chairs.

In the political arena, Prime Minister Keir Starmer faced his own bout of misfortune. During a one-way made-for-tv monologue, he received a verbal lashing from his old buddy/nemesis/who-knows-what, Donald Trump, who accused him of ‘dithering.’ Trump’s words landed with the subtlety of a Scud missile (yes, we like retro), leaving Starmer in a political tailspin that even a strong cup of Typhoo couldn’t remedy.

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This week was not exactly one for the England history books, unless you’re writing a manual on ‘How Not to Win.’ Yet, in true British fashion, the nation remains resilient, ready to dust itself off and have a laugh at the absurdities of it all. Here’s to hoping next week brings sunnier skies and fewer metaphorical banana peels. I wouldn’t hold your breath.

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Headlines scream about soaring rents, oil-battles and the latest political playground fiascos (can’t they just go to work and do sh*t like normal people?), but all most people can think about is keeping soggy sandwiches dry.

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One worker exclaims in despair, “At this rate, I’ll need a boat for my commute!”

A couple huddles under a flimsy umbrella, bickering over who forgot the heat in their romance amidst the winter doom-scroll. “You promised me a sunny getaway, not a damp sofa!” she shouts, while he retorts, “I thought we were saving for a house, not a holiday!”

“Damn the house, we’ll need our savings for this mid-life AI-took-my-job crisis.” She quips back, while he conjectures, “May as well make that holiday a one way ticket.”

Is this winter weather a metaphor for modern life?

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What follows is a three-act tragedy-turned-farce in which technocrats are parachuted over, podiums are violently repossessed, and global economics is replaced by slide deck nationalism. Gazilionaires are left quaking in their ski boots at the thought of their cosy, clubby winter retreat taken over by the technocrats they were meant to depose.

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Consider this less World Economic Forum and more World Ego Wrestling - where the charts are optional, the volume is maxed out, and Greenland is suddenly very, very American.

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We have 3 little wishes for 2026:

1. Please let AI leave us a couple of scraps… you know, before we exit stage right.

2. Can the wars switch gears? Wakey-wakey!!

3. Forget ‘Not my King’ let’s switch to Taylor - and ‘Yes my Queen!”

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You’re doomscrolling. Not by choice - the Attention Economy owns your frontal lobe and doesn’t accept “boundaries” as payment. Some product manager decided your thumb should never know peace.

Then your screen flickers. Not dying, opening a portal .

THE LETTS JOURNAL: Tonight, three ghosts. Unpaid, obviously.

GHOST ONE: CHRISTMAS POLICY

A figure materialises - half human, half three-ring binder, fully convinced sub-clauses can save civilisation.

“Hello! I’m here to defeat the far-right by gently ending human rights in a legally compliant way.”

You blink. “Are you... Keir Starmer?”

“No. I’m his vibe . Head Prefect of Earnest Managerialism.” It adjusts its lanyard. “When everything’s burning - migration, geopolitics, disinformation - what people really crave is immaculate paperwork.”

Behind it, Europe hunches in its trademark diplomatic crouch while Washington either ignores it or kicks over its sandcastle for sport.

GHOST TWO: CHRISTMAS BUDGET

She arrives wearing a Treasury briefcase and the expression of someone stopping the markets from combusting.

“Welcome to the Great National Wallet Inspection.”

Your bank account appears on screen. It looks like a damp crisp.

“Stealth taxes. Frozen thresholds. Temporary measures lasting until the sun dies.” She flips through spreadsheets like a magician palming knives. Behind her, two figures stumble into frame: one ageing school bully, one well-meaning nerd trying to look cool - both somehow running the country.

“Why does Britain always feel like Year 4 with an inside joke?”

She shrugs. “Because the theatre is absurd and the numbers are grim. Now, shall we distract you with something shiny?”

Your screen pings: LIMITED EDITION COMBO DROP - one gold smartphone that doesn’t turn on, one Middle East war that won’t stop, customer experience TBD.

GHOST THREE: CHRISTMAS CONTENT

It wears gaudy gold casing like armour. “I bring you 2025’s greatest hits: wars as headlines, headlines as merch, merch as identity. Circle of life with affiliate links.”

The montage accelerates:

• Gen Z stampeding for dinner at 5:45 PM, power-eating burrata before their 8 PM skincare routine

• The world’s loudest grifters snorting engagement like oxygen (eyeballs = dollars, your attention = their leverage)

• A corporate cemetery where mega-mergers died, and Wall Street, having destroyed $300 billion in value, suggests another merger anyway, because optimism and amnesia are basically the same drug

You feel that familiar cocktail: laughter, dread, and the urge to throw your phone in the Thames.

“Is this what 2025 was?”

The ghost smiles. “Oh honey. That was just foreplay.”

THE FUTURE

A door appears: SURVIVING: ENTER AT YOUR OWN RISK

Inside, five people sit around a table. That’s the whole company.

“Welcome. We’re not a fantasy unicorn. We’re basically a dinner party with revenue.”

A whiteboard reads: FTB SCORE: FULL-TIME BOT EQUIVALENCY. GOAL: MASSIVE BUSINESS, TINY TEAM.

In the corner, a VC in Patagonia sobs. “He’s adjusting to the end of the venture capital lunch,” someone explains. “All dashboards now. No more handshakes and legendary expensive salads.”

You watch the bots work - fast, tireless, unbothered by existential questions. The logic is intoxicating: Why be slow? Why be messy? Why be human when you can be optimised?

Your phone buzzes gently, like a conscience with push notifications.

Reminder: the people yelling “STOP” are often still building the thing.

“So what’s the point?”

The founders look at each other. One says quietly: “We can build anything now . Question is whether we build things that make life better... or just make the machine hungrier.

Does that get us rich quicker?”

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THE MESSAGE

The ghosts reappear, suddenly serious, the way satire gets when it’s trying to save you without sounding like HR.

Ghost of Policy: “Europe doesn’t need permission slips. It needs a spine.”

Ghost of Budget: “Britain doesn’t need distractions. It needs adults, in values, not just spreadsheets.”

Ghost of Content holds up your phone like a mirror: “You don’t need another hit of outrage. You need your life back.”

“So what’s the Christmas message?”

They lean in, conspiratorial:

This Christmas, be inconveniently human.

Give your attention to people who can’t be monetised. Give your time to things that don’t scale. Say what you mean without corporate euphemisms. Laugh at the absurdity - but don’t let it win.

And if you’re going to worship anything, don’t make it the algorithm, the stock chart, the charismatic bully, the earnest prefect, or the gold phone that doesn’t work.

Make it something radical: Decency. Courage. A spine: One Letts Journal article at a time...

Your phone dims. The room warms.

One last notification:

THE LETTS JOURNAL: Merry Christmas. Keep it short, sharp, and kind. And if the world offers you a “Santa rally” made of Bitcoin and nonsense... at least have the dignity to giggle a bit first.

You put the phone down. Not forever - you’re not a monk, it’s 2025 - but long enough to breathe and remember:

The greatest act of rebellion in the Attention Economy is choosing what you care about.

Now pass the weird vegan roast. Dad tried.

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In June, Defence Secretary John Healey announced moving the UK to “war-fighting readiness”.

Given the findings from the committee’s report this might be putting the cart a few million miles before the horse parade.

The government announced earlier this year that UK defence spending would rise to 3% of GDP by 2034 at the latest. ‘Late’ being the proverbial word.

We decided to take a look for ourselves and joined the army on its recent manoeuvres/war games/reenactments. The team at Southern Water joined us to try and find their lost bio-pellets.

The government is announcing plans to restart the production of energetics - explosives, pyrotechnics (fireworks?!) and propellants in the UK, after two decades of sourcing these materials from overseas. Reminding us that buzzwords always help.

Meanwhile drones will soon get built in Plymouth and Swindon, which is nice.

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According to another recent report, Russia treats the UK as enemy No1 - not the US any more. Which inspired Committee chair Tanmanjeet Singh Dhesi to state: “Putin’s brutal invasion of Ukraine, unrelenting disinformation campaigns, and repeated incursions into European airspace mean we cannot afford to bury our heads in the sand.”

It looks a bit late for that.

God save us all if Russia proves less patient/friggin’ fast asleep at the wheel…

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An unconfirmed spokesperson (that might actually be a bot) stated that it could also help with their AI-blamed reduction in force programme.

Meanwhile, objections could be raised by astronomers concerned that rising numbers of satellites in low orbit are “like bugs on a windshield” when they are trying to peer into the universe?!

Who said pollution should be the preserve of earth alone?

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And for those of you who like your LettsCartoon in real life - we have one of these too.

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They could, on the other (presumably busted) hand, monetise the crisis with a new Chelsea branded Invictus Games. The Ukrainian President, Volodymyr Zelenskyy, gave it the nod, pointing out that the club had more injuries than Ukraine reports in an average week on the front lines. Prince Harry did not get back for comment.

Meanwhile, Chelsea coach, Enzo Maresca, has been busy lauding his talent for versatility and hands-on pitch antics. He will most certainly need it.

This LettsCartoon was not brought to you by Chelsea F.C. as sponsors. But we remain, as ever, hopeful…

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Is this peak farm-to-table chic, or is everyone just desperate to post their dinner before their 8PM skincare routine? Either way, London’s once-glamorous nightlife now comes with a side of mashed peas, a mad dash for the 7:12 train to the outer Zone 6 flat they can almost afford, and the crushing realisation that Gen Z has made “early bird” the new him/her.

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“This is deterrence,” Starmer explained, before accidentally firing a pigeon into orbit.

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Moving on from the toasties, witnesses were left both alarmed and oddly inspired as the British Prime Minister personally climbed aboard a military drone - originally designed to be unmanned - and insisted on “taking back control” of UK airspace. Strapped to the fuselage with leftover NHS red tape and piloting with an Xbox controller, Starmer performed what experts described as “aerial interpretive dance” over Westminster.

Upon landing (in a duck pond in Surrey), he declared, “We are ready for anything - even if anything is a mild breeze and a confused goose.” The drone has since been grounded for psychological recovery.

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An official from the Ministry of Defence (MOD), speaking under strict anonymity because "frankly no one believes this is happening," offered a measured assessment:
“We assumed this was a morale-boosting visit. Next thing we know, he’s rebranding battalions as ‘Delivery Units’ and asking if bayonets can be means-tested. He tried to enter the nuclear codes into a Tesco Clubcard app. The man’s either five moves ahead of us or lost in the staff car park.”

Thus Britain enters its most ambiguously mobilised phase since the invention of the clipboard. Starmer, now visibly wearing both a flak jacket and a hi-vis vest “for cross-sector integration,” insists that every Brit must do their part - even if that part is limited to filling in a stakeholder engagement survey during a blackout. His mission is clear, his plan less so.

Whether on the front lines, in the cockpit, or just slightly lost behind a hedge in Salisbury, Generalissimo Starmer stands ready to defend the realm from ambiguity, nuance, and any policies that might cause a fuss.

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It's musical chairs meets reality TV, with wind turbines and Nigel Farage. Who’ll stick the landing in this electoral tornado? Buckle up, grab some popcorn, and brace yourself - this is one circus you won’t want to miss!

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"Yo, Musk, do ya think you could rig these guns to fire the fentanyl straight back at em?"

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After all, it's been a busy year for him/us/me/she keeping up with the Amazons.

Meanwhile, world leaders are praying for a bit of that old illusive growth returning in 2025.

Wall Street begged for a Santa rally... and they got Trump. Now they're praying or rather humming a hopeful tune... "it's a rainin' Bitcoin - hallelujah!"

2025 will be a new dawn. Donald tells us so. And Like Finding Nemo - growth (along with US liquid gas) might return...

Anyone for Bitcoin at $1,000,000,000?

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Happy Christmas.

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3 wise tech bros set aside their X's and Threads and Bluesky's for the day. They came to kiss the ring and gave him their holiday promise that henceforth they would only speak the one truth. For they would solely use Truth Social to tell their tales. Santa/Trump blessed them and offered them shares in his meme stock as a way of compensation.

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Meanwhile back in Blighty the British Prime Minister told us that he will be personally holding down the fort over Christmas - and wishes he could find a few wise men to help him as well. He also stated that it was not the case that his Downing Street team were jumping like rats from a sinking ship. Indeed, quite the opposite. Ho, ho ho...

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At the moment details are a little sketchy other than 'ditch the corporate mumbo-jumbo jargon folk'! You know, the empty suits with Adidas Campus sneakers - and manage from the middle (we added that) with tonnes of reports and control. Do what your gut tells you, just not the Sam Bankman-Fried kinda gut.

The Mafia have apparently been practising 'Founder Mode' for ages. They call it 'keeping it in the family'...

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Keep up to date with The Letts Journal’s latest news stories and posts at our website and on twitter.

for Dubai!

“Is there room for one more on the plane, old chap? I promise my carry-on is no more than 20 (million) pounds.”

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When asked, the PM's office "politely declined to comment" (or, you know, hid in the vault).

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Insiders say Finance Minister Rachel Reeves has been snooping around, asking if any of the vault's secret cash could help plug the black hole in the government’s finances. Word is, she even hit up the King for a loan, only for him to ice her - turns out keeping his palaces toasty costs a royal fortune, and he was really counting on those heating allowances. Aren’t we all.

As Westminster tightens its belt, at least someone’s still enjoying the high life - one "donation" at a time!

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